


Rehabilitation

by LarasLandlockedBlues



Series: Lightning Struck [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cullen Has Issues, Cullen Rutherford Has Issues, Cullen Rutherford Smut, Cullen Smut, Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasizing, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Has Nothing to Do With Inquisition, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages and Templars, Minor Original Character(s), Modern Thedas, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Cullen Rutherford, POV Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Past Drug Addiction, Pining, Random and Shortish, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unethical Longing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-11 12:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12935817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarasLandlockedBlues/pseuds/LarasLandlockedBlues
Summary: Modern AU that focuses on Cullen Rutherford as he gets sent to a hospital to be treated for lyrium withdrawal under the care of Evelyn Trevelyan, a mage-doctor who specializes in lyrium addiction and withdrawal.Longing, angst, and smut ensue as they get to know one another through his recovery, and after once he sets out to help others going through the same thing.Has nothing to do with Inquisition except for characters and references to Mage-Templar War. Features characters from other works in this series, Eye of the Storm and Moments Passed.





	1. Withdrawal Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happened when I tried to work out how I was going to handle Cullen's lyrium withdrawal in Moments Passed. So here, a modern AU dealing with recovery from withdrawal and unexpected feelings, because of course these two are going to fall in love.
> 
> Also, my take on Evelyn is different here, including the fact that she's in an established relationship at the beginning. Just fair warning.
> 
> xx,  
> L

            They bring him in and all he knows is that he’s in agony.

            It feels like knives or fire ants are running under his skin, and he isn’t sure if he can stop his squirming and writhing at the feeling. It’s been too long now, and he’s sure he isn’t going to last. He’s overcome with his desire for it, for his need for it.

            He’d thought he could do without it. He had wanted to try, desperately. He didn’t want to become like the older Templars, like Emeric and the others who were slowly losing their minds to it. He wouldn’t be like that.

            But now, trying to go off it…

            This was madness, this was torture.

            Why had he ever wished this upon himself?

            He cries out in agony, yelling at the shooting pains running through his veins.

            He’s going to die, and all he can think about are the memories from before. Kinloch is overwhelming him, Kirkwall is overwhelming him.

            “What’s his heart rate?” a soft voice is saying above him, and he tries to see through his delirium to see who is speaking.

            Vague notions of a soft hand grabbing his wrist, of another set of hands readying an oxygen mask to put over his nose. He can make out a pale face above his, peering into his eyes, and a soft finger reaches over to hold his eyelid open so his eye can be observed more closely.

            He can’t tell who it is.

            He isn’t sure he’ll be able to figure it out.

            They’re framed by the bright white lights above him and glowing like a spirit, though, and he begins to wonder if the Maker is calling him home.

            “He’s spiking – we need to stabilize him,” the soft voice calls again, and his eyelid is released and he shuts his eyes.

            Darkness descends, and he can’t remember anything as it engulfs him.

 

 

 

            His eyelids flutter open slowly, and the fluorescent lights above him hurt his eyes. He clenches them shut and tries to steady himself.

            He doesn’t remember a thing.

            He tries to focus, he tries to think where he could be.

            But nothing comes to mind except for pain.

            He hears soft tapping, the sound of heels on linoleum.

            He can tell someone is leaning over him, he can feel their presence without opening his eyes.

            Even still, he can tell it’s a mage’s presence, though the lyrium is leaving him and he can’t summon its power at the moment. But he can feel, like a small buzz in the air, that a mage is leaning over him. He’s been trained almost his whole life how to detect that feeling.

            A healer.

            That’s right, he had collapsed. Someone had called for help.

            He had been convulsing.

            He vaguely remembered a soft, angelic face over him.

            He chances a peek, squinting his eyes as he looks up to see who it is that’s looking him over.

            A pale woman with soft, graceful features and black hair pulled into a bun is leaning over him, inspecting his face with her gracefully arching brows furrowed.

            He manages to open his eyes a bit more to look up at her, and takes in the unusual sight of her eyes. They’re almost white in their paleness, the clear, sparkling irises ringed by a deep, thick line of blue. He sees a fleeting smile cross her face, a quick tug at the corners of her full pink lips the only sign that it happened.

            “Welcome back,” she says softly. “How are you feeling?”

            He tries to open his mouth to speak, but it feels like his tongue is coated, as if he ate several cotton balls and still has the remnant strings lining his mouth.

            She nods slightly and leans over to a stand beside the bed, picking up a cup with a straw. She angles the straw and directs it into his mouth.

            “Drink slowly,” she tells him, her voice still soft and reassuring.

            She holds the straw with her fingers so that he can take a few sips, and he goes slowly, just as she directed him. He wants to slurp it all down, though, the cool liquid feeling like heaven against his tongue. He takes several long, slow gulps and the feeling of cobwebs in his mouth gradually fades.

            “Better?” she asks, and he gives her a hesitant nod. She gives him a small quirk of the corners of her lips again and lowers the cup, setting it down once more on the stand beside the bed.

            “Well, Mr. Rutherford, you gave us all quite a scare,” she says after a moment looking him over. “The Maker almost called you home.”

            He simply stares at her, unsure of what he can say. He had thought he was a goner, that much is certain.

            “Had no one told you the dangers of going off lyrium so suddenly?” she asks, and he sees a slight frown on her face as she looks at him.

            He manages a slow shake of his head, but the action makes his head throb and he closes his eyes to the spinning room.

            “You should have waited until you had proper supervision,” she gently chides him. “You needed to wean yourself off, you can’t just quit cold turkey.”

            He manages a small sigh but keeps his eyes closed. “I – I didn’t want -” he tries to say.

            He can tell she’s sitting patiently, waiting for him to answer her. There’s no hurry to her, no rush to make him answer faster than he’s ready to. Instead he can tell, there’s pure serenity emanating from her. She’s letting him take things at his own pace.

            “I don’t want it anymore,” he finally murmurs, his voice barely audible.

            “I see,” she says softly. “Still, Mr. Rutherford, lyrium withdrawal is serious business. It can kill you just as surely as continued use of lyrium can.”

            “I know,” he whispers. His throat is parched again, and she seems to be able to tell because she reaches back over to the cup on the nightstand and angles the straw to his lips once more.

            He drinks deeply, but remembers her soft words and tries to slow himself. He manages several small sips, and then he opens his eyes to look at her once more.

            She’s watching him closely, and sets the cup down once more before she speaks.

            “We’ll have to keep you here, in the facility, to make sure you can get through the withdrawal,” she tells him. “We can mitigate the pain, watch the symptoms, and try to help you through this. It won’t be easy, though, even with our help. And there’s still a chance of failure. If this is what you want, though, we’ll do our best.”

            “It is,” he croaks, his throat still sore and dry. “I – I want to be done with it.”

            She stares at him for a moment and then slowly nods. “All right, then, Mr. Rutherford. We will do what we can for you,” she tells him. She stands from where she was sitting on the edge of his bed. She picks up the clipboard she had on the bed and turns to the door.

            “Oh, I almost forgot,” she mutters to herself. She walks to the large white board on the wall across from his bed and grabs one of the dry erase markers. She removes the cap and begins to write, the marker squeaking slightly as she does.

            He watches as she fills out his stats, some basic info, and then in the spot where it says “Doctor” she signs it quickly “Dr. Trevelyan” so that they know who to call if he needs her.

            She turns back around to face him. “I’ll send a nurse in to check on your pain and see what we can do for you at the moment,” she tells him. “But if you need anything more, they’ll be able to page me. Otherwise I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow, Mr. Rutherford, so that we can get you on the path to recovery.”

            She gives him a small nod of the head and turns to leave the room, and he watches her go. She’s petite, thin, but she carries herself with self-assurance and grace, as if she knows exactly what she’s capable of. It almost belies the youth she seems to possess, and he wonders mildly at her age. Her face holds no wrinkles, no signs of age, but he knows if she’s a fully fledged healer-doctor, she would have had to have been in school for many years to train. Her white doctor’s coat looks meticulous hanging over a knee length black skirt and a white button down, making her look professional and almost older than the look in her eyes suggests that she is. He listens as her heels clack on the tiles as she walks away.

            He closes his eyes, thinking about everything she said.

            Even with their help, there’s a chance he’ll fail.

            But it’s a chance he has to take, because he refuses to be leashed by lyrium any longer.

           

 

 

            He sleeps the entire day, and all night as well. He only wakes up when one of the nurses comes to check on him, when they take his vitals, draw his blood, and give him pain meds.

            In the middle of the night he wakes up screaming, remembering Kinloch, his blood feeling like it’s on fire.

            It takes a few of the night staff to hold him down, to sedate him, and they give him something to get him back to sleep.

            He gets pulled from his drugged sleep by a soft hand feeling his forehead, pushing back his sweaty locks of hair. He opens his eyes and sees the doctor again, and she leans forward to look at his pupils.

            She sighs and lifts his wrist, feeling his pulse, looking at the delicate watch on her wrist as she counts.

            When she’s through she looks up and sets his wrist down again, after giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

            The corners of her mouth tug up slightly in a half-smile.

            “How did you sleep, Mr. Rutherford?” she asks, but she looks like she already knows the answer.

            They must have told her.

            “F-fine,” he lies. He looks to the side to see if the cup of water is still there, and she seems to know what he’s looking for because he sees her thin hand reach out to pick it up.

            She holds it out for him, again angling the straw while she watches him take a sip. When he’s done she sets it back down, and then returns her gaze to his face. Her unusual eyes make the stern look on her face even more pronounced.

            “I’m your doctor, Mr. Rutherford, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie to me about how you’re doing,” she lightly scolds him. “If you’re going to get through this, you need to be honest with me. That’s the only way I can help you get better.”

            She holds his gaze until he slowly nods.

            “Thank you,” she tells him. “Now, please, was it the pain? Or is there another reason one of my orderlies had a black eye this morning from trying to sedate you?”

            “A-a black eye?” he tries to remember, and he realizes how much he was flailing, how much he was trying to fight them off.

            “Yes,” she answers with a small smirk. “He’s fine, otherwise. Said he should have realized a Templar would be harder to restrain -”

            “Former Templar,” he corrects firmly.

            She raises an eyebrow at him, thinking for a moment before she says. “Is that so? Is that why you’re doing this?”

            He nods.

            “Were you relieved from duty, or -”

            “No. Resigned,” he tells her.

            Both of her eyebrows raise now. “I see,” she says, but she doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He’s almost curious why she doesn’t ask. “And tell me, are night terrors common for you?”

            “Sometimes.”

            She nods and picks up his clipboard, making notes quickly for a moment. Her eyes skim over the page before her, and then she flips a few pages, looking at something else in his chart. She purses her lips for a moment and gives him a quick glance before she looks back down.

            “You were at Kinloch and Kirkwall previously?” she asks after a moment.

            “Yes,” he answers, his voice quiet.

            She nods and goes back to the first page of his chart and begins to make more notes. “Well, night terrors are easily fixed, while you’re here. We’ll be giving you a sleeping pill every night, that should help you -”

            “No, it’s – it’s fine, I don’t need -”

            “You need your rest, Mr. Rutherford,” she interrupts sternly. “Sleep is very important, especially right now. Your body needs to heal, not be jerked awake so violently.”

            He looks down, away from her piercing gaze. He can’t tell if it’s shame, embarrassment, or fear that makes him avoid her eyes.

            “Don’t worry, they’re small doses, non-addictive,” she assures him, as if she thinks that’s what he’s worried about. “We’re trying to get you off of one drug, we won’t get you hooked on another.”

            He gives a silent nod, still looking down.

            “How is your pain today?”

            “Fine,” he shrugs.

            “On a scale of 1-10?” she asks.

            He looks up, trying to decide, and she points with a small smile to a picture chart nearby. He follows the gesture and stares at the chart, and actually _chuckles_. He hasn’t laughed in days, weeks – hell, months even. But looking at the picture chart with simple, almost comical facial expressions to try to convey pain, he laughs.

            She lets out her own small giggle, but soon clears her throat lightly, still waiting patiently for his answer.

            “I – I guess a six, that face there – that probably looks like mine,” he says, and he turns a hesitant gaze to her.

            There’s a soft smile on her face as she marks his response, as if she’s trying not to laugh at him. He meant it teasingly, but he can tell she’s trying to make sure he knows she isn’t laughing at his pain. “Well, a six is a bit higher than we’d like you, but…” She purses her lips and reads through something else on the chart and then sighs. “We can’t increase your meds, at least not at the moment. You’re already on a high enough dosage.”

            “I – I guess I could also be a five, that one could be me, maybe if I scowled just so,” he says, and she looks up to see him imitate the face.

            She tries to keep herself from laughing and the result is a small snort through her nose, before she tries to bury herself in the chart once more. He smiles when he hears the snort, feeling a little more lighthearted. It’s been ages since he tried to joke, since he smiled or laughed.

            It feels nice for a change.

            He doesn’t quite understand what it is about her that makes him want to try humor again, but it’s a relief.

            It’s like a sudden cool breeze on a hot summer’s day, unexpected but welcome.

            “I’ll mark you somewhere between the two, how’s that?” she says, a small smile on her face as she scribbles something. She turns the chart to show him, and he sees that she drew a small face next to his answer. The face has an awkward grimace on it, and when he looks at it he sees that it also has a small scar at the corner of its frowning mouth.

            Just like him.

            He laughs harder, until his head starts to hurt worse and he stops, rubbing his temples.

            “Oh, no, I’m sorry, did I make your head worse?” she asks, frowning. “You looked like you could use a laugh, but…I guess laughter isn’t always the best medicine.”

            He shakes his head a little. “It’s fine, that – it’s nice to laugh, again,” he confesses.

            She smiles again and nods. “Glad I could help,” she finally stands from where she was sitting on the edge of his bed and walks over to the white board across from him. She changes a few of the answers, the marker squeaking again as she does.

            When she finishes she turns back to face him. “Well, I will let you get back to resting. The nurses will be in soon to take your vitals, and I’ll come by later to check and see if we’ve brought that pain down any.”

            He looks to the pain chart and points to it. “Maybe we can get it down to a four,” he muses and tries to replicate the face.

            Again she tries to keep herself from laughing, and tries to disguise the snort that results behind a cough. “That would be good, yes,” she says after a moment. “Until then, though, take care – and no more giving my staff black eyes, agreed?”

            “Agreed,” he says, and watches her go.

  

* * *

 

 

            “Oh, Dr. Pentaghast, please may I have a moment?” Evelyn hurries forward to throw her hand between the closing elevator doors to halt their progress.

            “Dr. Trevelyan,” the other woman greets her curtly. “Yes, how can I help?”

            “I wanted to talk about the newest lyrium addict, if you had a moment,” Evelyn says as she steps onto the elevator.

            “I was looking through his chart earlier,” Cassandra nods, pursing her lips slightly. “It seems to be an interesting case – he’s a bit young to have such symptoms, isn’t he?”

            “He’s in withdrawal, he tried to go cold turkey,” Evelyn replies. “I wish they would tell them that they can’t do that, that they need to wean themselves off around professionals.”

            “Is that what you wish to speak to me about?”

            “No, sorry,” Evelyn shakes her head, trying to refocus. Now wasn’t the time for one of her speeches about what changes were needed. “He seems to be having some resistance to the pain meds. He’s on one of the highest doses we can give him, but he still rated his pain at a six. And I think he was under exaggerating it.”

            “Or perhaps he just wants more medicine,” the other woman muses.

            “No, he doesn’t seem like the type,” Evelyn denies, thinking about the sad look in his amber eyes. He almost seemed reluctant when she brought up his meds, like he didn’t want them at all.

            “You’ve thought that before,” Cassandra points out, and Evelyn chafes under her stern gaze.

            “This time is different,” she insists.

            The elevator finally reaches its destination and Evelyn hurries to follow the taller woman’s long strides as they depart. Cassandra doesn’t bother with heels like the other doctors do, she doesn’t wear skirts or dresses under her white coat. She wears long trousers and loafers, and moves around quickly as if impatient in everything she does, always trying to do more.

            At first, Evelyn was incredibly intimidated by her when she came to work at the hospital.

            Now, she admires her more than she’s admired anyone, and frequently seeks her out for advice and counsel.

            “I just thought maybe there was more we could do, maybe more I’m not thinking of,” Evelyn continues as she follows the other doctor down the hall.

            “What other symptoms is he having?” Cassandra asks with a frown.

            “Here, I have his chart,” Evelyn hands her the chart and she finally slows, stopping so she can read it over. Evelyn stops beside her and waits, bouncing on her toes a bit as Cassandra’s impatient energy sweeps over her. It’s contagious, and makes Evelyn anxious and ready to take on more work.

            “Interesting,” Cassandra mutters as she reads over his chart. “I’m not certain withdrawal is the only thing…”

            But when the other woman trails off, Evelyn leans forward to look over the chart.

            “I think, after you’ve managed to get him through the worst of the physical withdrawal,” Cassandra looks up and hands her the chart again. “I would recommend therapy. Counseling, group sessions – he needs it.”

            “You think his problem is mental? Maybe psychosomatic?” Evelyn raises her eyebrows, contemplating the possibility.

            “It could be, considering his history,” Cassandra folds her arms as she thinks. “You have it written down that he was at Kinloch and Kirkwall, and based on the information they gave us about his service when they checked him in, it puts him there during the worst things that have happened in both of those places.”

            Evelyn nods, flipping through the chart. She had noticed that as well, and had known that at least that explained his night terrors.

            “After he’s passed the worst of the physical withdrawal, I would encourage him to see one of our therapists, as well as some of our group sessions,” Cassandra says. “I would advise him to seek out help for PTSD as well as addiction. Perhaps anxiety and depression as well, if you notice him displaying symptoms of either.”

            Evelyn nods. “I’ll take that under advisement, thank you, Dr. Pentaghast,” she says.

            “Of course,” the other woman gives her a curt nod and briskly continues on to where she was headed before Evelyn joined her.

            For a moment Evelyn stands and stares down at the chart, trying to figure out what to do. Therapy and group sessions will help later, but at present she still has a patient in too much pain.

            She chews her lip and begins to walk down the hall, lost in her musings.

            She hasn’t been at this hospital long enough to hold the sway she needs to try to change things in her part of the clinic. But she wishes they would handle the rehab better, that maybe they could have workshops and more resources for those who wish to try to get clean.

            She scowls as she thinks about the Order’s insistent use of lyrium. She hates that they think it’s necessary, that they demand that sort of control over the Templars. They may be an elite force, but she doesn’t think anything or any battle is worth what the lyrium does to the men and women who join the Order.

            It’s the whole reason she studied medicine, the reason she decided to become a healer, a doctor in the first place. She was lucky enough to have found this hospital, a place where magic and medicine were used side by side. It had opened up a world of possibilities to her to try to make a change.

            But so far, all she’s dealt with are aging Templars losing their minds as the lyrium takes its final toll on their minds. And all she can do for them is mitigate the symptoms, to help ease their suffering before they die.

            Occasionally, she’s faced with a patient who was removed from the Order for misconduct, and was lucky enough to be brought to the clinic before their withdrawal got too bad. Others are brought in right before the end, their withdrawal claiming them before she can do anything to save them.

            This particular case that’s puzzling her was almost one of the latter. She’s happy that so far he’s held on, because she already has too many nights where she feels suffocated by the hardships of her job.

            It’s on those nights that she curses the Chantry and the Order the most.

            It’s on those nights she tries not to think of her older brother, or the horrible way he had died.

            She shakes herself and tries to clear the memories, determining to head back down to check on her patients.

            She stops at the nurses’ station and sets down the chart she’s holding to pick up another.

            “Hello, gorgeous,” a voice whispers in her ear, and she spins around. A small smile breaks out on her face when she sees who it is.

            “Hey there,” she replies, still smiling.

            Grayson wraps his arms around her middle and presses a kiss to her neck.

            “Grayson, we’re at work,” she chides him and tries to step out from his arms.

            “I’m on break, I just wanted a quick kiss,” he says, trying to pull her back to him as he whispers close to her ear. “That is unless you have time for a little afternoon delight?”

            She giggles but pushes him away. “I’m swamped, I have patients I need to check on.”

            He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “All right, I suppose. But we’re still on for dinner tonight, right? I confirmed with my brother, he and his wife are really looking forward to finally meeting you.”

            “Yes, I’ll be there,” she smiles. “I may run a little late though, I’ve got a few problem patients.”

            Grayson shakes his head. “Always being stolen away from me by someone else,” he laments in jest. “Just try not to be too late, all right? You want to make a good first impression, and my brother is notorious for always being on time.”

            “I’ll do my best,” she kisses him quickly on the cheek.

            “I’ll see you later, then,” he squeezes her waist one last time and then walks away, wandering back to his unit in the hospital.

            “Meeting the family, huh?” one of the nurses asks.

            Evelyn looks at her and makes a playful grimace. “Yes, should be…interesting.”

            “That’s why the Maker gave us wine,” the nurse says, and they laugh together for a moment.

            “How is Mr. Rutherford? Has he noted any improvement in his pain?” Evelyn asks as she flips through his chart again.

            “No, he said it’s the same,” the nurse sighs heavily. “Oh, and you should check on Mr. Alrik, when you get a chance. He had an episode earlier, it was pretty bad.”

            Evelyn sighs and nods. “Thanks for letting me know.”


	2. Withdrawal Pt. 2

            Her phone is ringing and she’s trying to unlock her car door, balancing the research papers she has in her hands.

            “Damn it,” she mutters, trying to grab the phone without dropping anything. “Hello?”

            “Evie, where are you? You’re half an hour late -”

            It’s Grayson.

            “I’m so sorry, honey, one of my patients…look, it hasn’t been a good day,” her voice cracks and she can’t continue.

            She just wants to go home. She wants a hot bath and a whole bottle of wine. She wants to light candles and soak in the water and just let herself _cry_.

            She doesn’t want to go to dinner.

            She doesn’t want to have to put on a brave, happy face and meet Grayson’s brother and his wife.

            She doesn’t want to have to act like her job doesn’t take its toll on her for the benefit of other people.

            “Evie, what’s wrong?” he asks. He sounds concerned but he also sounds annoyed.

            “I’m sorry, Grayson, we – I lost another patient, and I thought he’d been making progress,” she sighs.

            “I’m so sorry, babe,” he sighs. “Do we – do we need to reschedule? I’m sure they’ll understand, and I can have dinner with them and bring something home for you, if you’d like.”

            “Would you? Do you mind?” she’s finally gotten the car door open and throws her papers into the passenger seat. “I’m so sorry, it just – it only just happened, I haven’t had time to process. I’ll be a wreck if I try to come to dinner.”

            He’s silent for a moment, and she can tell he’s trying to fight the irritation in his voice. If she hadn’t lost a patient, she knew this would be another fight. Instead, he’s trying to be understanding.

            “It’s fine, Evie, I’ll just have dinner with them and then I’ll meet you at home,” he says finally. “Do you want the shrimp alfredo or the salmon? I saw both of them on the menu, I thought you’d like one of them.”

            “The alfredo sounds good,” she gets into the car and closes her door. She puts her key in her ignition but doesn’t turn it on yet. “Thank you, honey. I’m so sorry, tell them I was really looking forward to it.”

            “I will. I love you, I’ll see you at home,” he says.

            “I love you, too,” she answers, but he hangs up the phone just as she starts the sentence.

            Evelyn heaves a deep sigh and sets her phone down, taking a moment to rest her head on the steering wheel.

            Taking deep breaths, she tries to calm herself so she can start the drive home.

            It hasn’t been her day.

            She starts her car finally and drives home, distracted the whole time. She nearly misses her turn to their house, still not fully used to the new route home after years in her apartment. But it’s been two months now, and they’re finally unpacked and fully settled in their new place.

            She tries not to think about the fights they’ve been having, the silly arguments about where dishes go and who does the laundry. She tries not to think about how she hates his theory that the floor is just as good a storage space as all of the cabinets and closets they have. She tries not to think about how she has clutter to clean up when she gets home, instead determining that she’ll save that chore for tomorrow.

            She turns on the lights after she opens the door and ignores the pile of shoes in the entryway. She makes her way straight upstairs instead, carrying her research papers with her. She kicks her heels off and sets the papers down on the bed, rubbing her forehead as she makes her way to the large garden tub in the master bathroom.

            She turns it on, as hot as it will go, and plugs the tub before she drops in a bath bomb. She makes sure she always has a supply ready, often laced with healing or relaxation herbs like elfroot and embrium. She needs them for days like these.

            She runs downstairs to get a bottle of wine and one of the large balloon glasses that she knows fit half a bottle easily. She hurries back upstairs and finishes setting up her relaxation space, lighting candles with her magic, pouring her wine, turning on jazz.

            When she’s done, she strips naked and eases herself into the scalding water with a deep sigh.

            She pulls her knees up to her chest, and immediately just _cries_.

            She only does this when no one is around, and not even Grayson has ever caught her in these dark moments. Three years together and she’s never let him see her whole body wrecked with sobs, heaving as she laments another patient she couldn’t save.

            She lets herself cry and feel _everything_ until her eyes run out of tears and she no longer hiccups or gasps. Her sorrow spent, she splashes her face with the bathwater, which is lukewarm by now. She holds her hand on top of it and concentrates, letting the magic flow through her until the water is again deliciously hot.

            She leans back, finally intent on relaxing, and quickly drains the large glass of wine she poured for herself. She empties the other half of the bottle into her glass and sits back, this time sipping and savoring it as she listens to the music she turned on for herself.

            It’s like this that Grayson finds her an hour later, and he walks into the room and leans down to give her a kiss on the forehead.

            “How are you?” he asks, and he no longer sounds annoyed.

            “I’m fine,” she answers.

            “I brought dinner, if you want to come have some,” he presses a quick kiss to her lips. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

            She smiles softly, finally feeling relaxed. But she’s not hungry. At least, not for food.

            She needs reassurance, she needs the touch of someone else. After spending all day trying not to touch, trying not to spread germs or cause pain on irritated, sensitive flesh, she needs to feel skin on hers.

            She looks up at him with a suggestive smile and he catches her eye.

            “I mean, you can always reheat it later, I suppose,” he says, and she giggles.

            She heaves herself out of the bath, the water sloshing around her as she gets out. His arms snake around her and he picks her up. She wraps her wet body around his, not caring that she’s getting his clothes wet.

            “Evie, you smell so good,” he moans and presses his lips to hers in a tender kiss.

            He carries her to the bed and lays her back on it, but she accidentally lands on the papers she’d placed there earlier. She squeals a little and rolls off of them, and Grayson pushes them off the bed impatiently before he goes back to removing his clothes.

            “Damn it, those were in order -” Evelyn begins but he pulls her hips down to the edge of the bed and begins kissing her again.

            “You can fix it later, Evie,” he murmurs and he slides his hand between her legs. “Right now, you had a bad day, and I want to make it better.”

            Her giggle turns into a moan, and she spreads her legs further for him so that he can push inside her.

            He’s always gentle with her, sometimes almost irritatingly so. She loves him, and she loves how tender he can be. But sometimes, she feels a bit like she’s missing passion.

            She has safety and security.

            But she wants nearly obsessive adoration, she wants hunger and _desperation_ for one another.

            She wants to feel whole.

            Instead, she settles for feeling content. She tells herself her desires are skewed, that they don’t exist in real life. She’s watched too many movies, she’s read too many romance novels.

            She accepts that she has the affection of a kind man, and lets herself indulge those fantasies in her mind, and through literature.

            Tonight though, a different fantasy enters her mind, that of a strong man with golden hair and warm amber eyes, and a crooked grin that sent a shiver through her when she saw it.

            Her eyes fly open and she searches out the face of her partner, trying to stop her mind from wandering the direction it just did. She focuses on the look on Grayson’s face, on his dark, almost black eyes wandering over her as he tries to reassure himself that she’s enjoying it. She reaches a hand up and feels his longer, straight brown hair between her fingers, running her fingers through it to assure herself that it’s not curly, golden waves.

            It’s never happened to her before, she’s never thought about anyone else while he’s been inside her. And certainly not someone she had just met, much less a patient – the last person she should ever be thinking about.

            She hates herself, feeling ashamed for the unethical way her mind is picturing that crooked grin above her instead of Grayson’s slack-jawed face.

            She’s so distracted, she can’t finish. And he doesn’t notice until after, when he apologizes and presses kisses to her and asks what he can do. She tells him it’s fine, that she still enjoyed it, that she just has too much on her mind.

            She’ll never tell him just how much, exactly.

  

* * *

 

 

            He hates _everything_.

            He hates the fluorescent lights above him.

            He hates this bed, and how uncomfortable it is, how confined it makes him feel.

            He hates the pain meds, dulling his senses but not the pain.

            He hates the nurses coming in to check on him all the time, poking and prodding him with no concern for dignity.

            He hates their hands on him, his skin crawling like he has ants on him, anything touching it only making the feeling worse.

            He hates how he can’t keep any food down, and how his bowels just won’t cooperate with him.

            He hates the mind-numbing blackness of sleeping under the influence of the sleeping pills, still waking up feeling like he’s not rested and aching.

            But right now, he hates _her_ , and her soft voice, the look of concern in her eyes as she takes in his glower.

            “How are you today, Mr. Rutherford?” she asks, and he can see the frown threatening to cross her face as she takes in his appearance.

            “Fine,” he grits out, his tone harsh.

            She gives a noncommittal hum and reaches for his wrist, but he flinches and pulls it away from her as if she scalded him. She pulls her hand back and stares at him for a moment.

            “Is your skin hurting?” she asks.

            He gives a jerky nod.

            “For how long, now?”

            “A few days.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” she frowns.

            “I’m already on pain meds,” he grumbles.

            She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll be right back.”

            He watches as she walks briskly out of the room, the quick _click-clacking_ of her heels sounding like drums in his head. He leans back and clenches his eyes, trying desperately to shut out the noise. But still his head throbs and pounds.

            He hates this.

            He hates himself.

            He hates that he thought he could do this.

            The rapid sound of her heels returns, and he peeks his eyes open to look at her. She’s holding a small vial and a poultice comprised of mashed herbs between two sheets of what looks like cheesecloth.

            “Here,” she says, and she hands him the vial.

             He notices she’s careful not to touch him, holding it so that he can initiate the contact when he’s ready. He reaches out and takes it, but eyes it warily.

            “It’s an elfroot mixture,” she tells him, her voice still so soft and reassuring. “It will help that aching, crawling feeling. Part of that is caused by your fever, which this should lessen.”

            He stares at it for only a few more moments before he holds it to his lips and drinks it down in one gulp. It tastes herbal, but not horrible. If he isn’t wrong, there’s honey in it. He raises a confused frown to her.

            “Did you sweeten it?” he asks.

            She smiles. “It helps it go down easier.”

            She lays out the poultice, unfolding the cheesecloth to expose the herbs. She holds her hand over it, and ice crystals emanate from her fingertips, freezing over the herbs. She tucks the cloth back together and holds it out to him. “It’s for your head.”

            He stares at it, unwilling to take it. He can’t get over the magic, suddenly paralyzed by the sight of it, the visual confirmation that she’s a mage.

            He isn’t sure why it bothers him. It feels like an old wound opening, one he thought had healed.

            She stares at him, frowning. “Is something wrong?”

            He gulps.

            He can’t bring himself to answer.

            “Here -”

            She puts the compress against his head but he flinches and pulls away from her.

            “No,” he growls, raising a hand to ward her off.

            She quickly lowers her hand and her scowl deepens. “Does it hurt that badly?”

            “No. Magic.”

            Her eyebrows rise as high as they can on her forehead, and for a moment she just stares at him.

            “I suppose I’ll leave it here, then,” she says, and he notices an odd tremor to her voice. She sets the poultice on the stand where he can reach it. “It will still be cold for a few hours, if you change your mind. I’ll send someone to check on you later.”

            She turns and picks up his chart, intending to go.

            “Wait,” he says.

            He hates himself. He hates how irritated he’s felt, he hates how confined and how much pain he’s been feeling. He hates this hate.

            And he hates the clipped way she just spoke to him, losing the softness in her voice. He sees the stilted way she turns around to look at him, waiting to see what he’ll say. He sees in her eyes the reservation, and he knows that he’s not the first one to take this out on her. He knows that he’s not the first to be cruel and ungrateful for everything she’s doing.

            He’s certain he isn’t the only Templar who’s held it against her, who has spat at her because she’s a mage.

            “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

            She smiles, and he’s happy to see it’s a genuine smile. “It’s all right,” she assures him.

            “No, it isn’t, I -”

            “You’re going through a lot, Mr. Rutherford -”

            “Cullen,” he interjects.

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Please – call me Cullen,” he says. “Everyone keeps calling me Mr. Rutherford but I – I just want to be called Cullen. By at least one person. I want to feel normal.”

            She holds his gaze and slowly nods. “All right, then, Cullen,” she agrees. “The poultice is there when you’re ready for it, and I’ll be back later to check on you.”

            She gives him another small smile and finally leaves the room.

            He realizes he doesn’t know her first name, and he wonders if she’ll tell him if he asks next time she comes in the room.

            He looks down at the poultice, and considers for a moment. His head aches, and he feels feverish. Some of the prickling, crawling, raw feeling of his skin has finally begun to go away, albeit slowly.

            After only another moment’s hesitation, he reaches over and picks up the poultice and holds it to his forehead.

 

 

 

            The days are all starting to blur together, and he isn’t fully sure how long it’s been. He’s starting to ache all over though from resting in the bed all the time, and he’s happy when she recommends taking a walk one day.

            She sets a soft pair of pants down and asks if he needs help, but he blushes and determines to do it himself. She closes the curtains around his bed and steps away to the papers she had put down on the sofa.

            He pulls the pants on slowly, his joints stiff and his muscles aching like he’s overexerted them. But one at a time he pulls the pants onto his legs and slowly pushes himself to the edge of the bed.

            “All set?” she asks from the other side of the curtain.

            “Yes,” he murmurs. He feels a bit faint, and doesn’t trust trying to stand yet.

            She pushes the curtain back again and smiles at him. “Feeling all right?”

            “A little dizzy,” he admits.

            “That’s fine, we’ll take it slowly,” she says. She moves to stand beside him and sets her papers down on the bed. “For now, just adjust to sitting up on your own. When you’re ready, we’ll try to stand.”

            He nods, and glances over to look at the papers she’s shifting through. Some of them are crinkled, like they got wet and dried again, the paper slightly matted and damaged.

            “Did you spill something?” he teases, and points at the sheet he means.

            She looks at it and shuffles it quickly behind the others. If he’s not wrong, she’s blushing. “Yes, I guess I did,” she answers. “Do you think you can try to stand?”

            He’s curious about the way she acted about the paper, but he turns his focus to trying to slide off the bed. She stands poised beside him, ready to catch him if she needs to.

            He’s unsteady on his feet for the first moment, one hand gripping the bed behind him until he’s sure he can stand on his own.

            “Good,” she tells him with a smile. “Here, we’re going to take your I.V. stand with us, and you can lean on me if you’d like.”

            She offers him an arm after she pushes his I.V. stand to him, and he reluctantly puts his large hand on her delicate forearm. He isn’t quite sure what help she’ll actually be able to provide him, considering how much smaller she is than him. But she braces her arm under his hand and he’s amazed at the strength in the action, more than able to support him.

            “Do you train?” he asks, mildly surprised.

            “When I can, but even just work keeps me fit,” she gives him a timid smile. “Ready to try taking a few steps?”

            He takes a few deep breaths and tries to focus on his goal. He slowly shuffles his feet forward, using the stand and her arm to help him.

            “Very good,” she praises him softly. “Still dizzy?”

            “Only a little,” he tells her.

            “Well we’ll take it slowly,” she assures him again. “Tell me if you need to stop or start feeling faint.”

            They slowly make their way to the door, and out into the hallway. He’s sure it’s an agonizingly slow pace for her, but he’s almost out of breath as he tries to make his way forward.

            “Do you need a break?” she asks.

            “No, I can – I can do it.” He determines himself to mean it. He pushes forward, taking small, slow steps down the hall.

            She continues beside him, peering around, occasionally glancing up into his face to make sure he’s all right.

            A man comes down the hall wearing scrubs and smiles brightly when he sees her.

            “Oh hello, Evie,” he says and approaches them. “Working on your paces?”

            She giggles a little. “First time out of bed,” she motions with her free hand to Cullen. “I’d say he’s doing really well, wouldn’t you?”

            “Definitely,” the man agrees. “How are you feeling, Ser?”

            Cullen looks at the man, taking in his dark, nearly black eyes and the almost boyish quality to his face. “I’m – I’m all right,” he finally answers.

            “Hey, all right is better than you were, I’m sure,” the man chuckles. “Ev – I mean, Dr. Trevelyan is the best at what she does, she’ll have you on the road to full recovery in no time.”

            “Thank you, Doctor,” Cullen says to the man.

            “Oh, I’m not – well, anyway, I was just passing by,” the man awkwardly turns away from them. “See you later, Evie,” he says as he hurries away from them.

            Cullen frowns, but he decides he wants to keep walking and starts to take a few steps forward.

            “Still doing all right?” she asks as she takes up her slow pace beside him once more.

            “Not as dizzy,” he tells her.

            She nods. “That’s progress. Do you want to head back?”

            “No, a little more,” he says. He’s still determined. He wants to reach the end of the hall and back. He doesn’t want to go lay in bed any longer.

            “As you wish,” she says with a soft giggle.

            They walk silently beside each other, until they reach the end of the hall and he can look out the window there. He looks out at the sea and cliffs beyond the rest of the hospital, taking in the spectacular view. He takes a deep breath, as if he could actually smell the salty sea air through the glass.

            “We’ll work our way up to going outside, I think,” she says, and gently tries to urge him to turn around.

            He lets her with a small sigh and they begin their slow progress back down the hall to his room.

            “Shouldn’t a nurse be helping me do this?” he asks.

            “My only focus is lyrium addiction and withdrawal, and so my patient load is rather small,” she tells him with a smile. “It means I get to devote a lot of time to my individual patients, which is good. It means I get to tailor all of your treatments, and in turn they’re more successful.”

            “Why focus on lyrium? It’s a Templar problem, and you’re a -”

            He can’t finish the sentence, afraid he’ll sound accusatory.

            But she simply smiles. “It’s a cause I hold near and dear to my heart.”

            She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask.

            They make it back to his room, and she helps him back into his bed. She makes sure he gets comfortable, and offers to send a nurse with a poultice and elfroot vial for him. Then she picks up her damaged papers from where she had left them and she departs.

            Cullen stares at the door after she goes, wondering over her expertise in lyrium. He wonders why she would study lyrium and work in a clinic to help Templars, even though she’s a mage.


	3. Recovery Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic also includes non-Cullen smut as well, as an aside.  
> And while Grayson isn't as much of a dick as he is in Moments Passed, he and Evelyn are certainly not a thoroughly healthy relationship.

            Cullen is finally through the worst of his physical pains. He’s been in the clinic for a few months, now, and Dr. Trevelyan says every day that he’s making amazing progress.

            He walks for several hours each day in the courtyard, through the small gardens, or even just the halls of the hospital. Occasionally he sneaks down to the cafeteria and gets something sweet to eat, since he suddenly seems to have an insatiable sweet tooth.

            He’s down there one day when he looks up and sees his doctor holding a tray laden with soup, a salad, and a cup of black coffee. She sees him sneaking cookies from the cafeteria worker who’s taken a shine to him, and she raises her eyebrows at him.

            He’s not sure why he’s worried that she’s caught him. Maybe he’s worried she’ll tell him cookies are bad for him, especially considering the items she’s carrying on her tray. Instead she simply smirks and looks away, almost looking like she’s pleased with him.

            He walks by the table she’s taken a seat at on the way back to his room, on impulse, and slips her one of his cookies, setting it stealthily on her tray as he passes.

            She giggles, but doesn’t say anything.

            If he’s not wrong, she blushes.

            The next day he starts therapy, both individual and group. His doctor has been recommending it for weeks now, trying to encourage him to attend several groups. She wants him to seek help for depression, as well as addiction. But she’s also been telling him he needs to seek help for PTSD.

            It makes him nervous, just thinking about it.

            She notices his hesitation every time she brings it up, though, and she softly assures him that everyone that will be there is going through something similar to him. She says that most of the patients in the groups are veterans of the Mage-Templar war. She tells him that if anyone will understand what he’s been through, it will be them. She offers to go with him, though, but he refuses.

            He needs to do this alone.

            He needs to recover alone.

            Plus, he doesn’t want her to hear the things he may need to talk about, the things he may share if he feels the urge.

            She shouldn’t think about him like that.

            He isn’t even sure why he doesn’t want her to know. She’s trying to help him heal. But he’s too proud to let her hear those things, to let her know what he’s been through.

            She’s heard the general stories, he knows. Everyone has heard the stories about what happened at Kinloch and Kirkwall. No one has heard _his_ stories, though, especially not about Kinloch, where he was one of the few survivors from the garrison stationed there.

            He tries to fight the nervousness he feels as he walks through the halls to the group therapy room. He can’t let it overwhelm him, he can’t let it send him flying down the hall in the opposite direction to seek the sanctuary of his room.

            He needs to do this.

            He slowly pushes the door open and looks around, seeing some of the other patients that he sees frequently in the halls, and a few new faces. Some of them are in the same soft hoodie and pants that he’s wearing, property of the hospital. Some are in street clothes, obviously no longer patients here but still attending therapy.

            It’s oddly comforting to Cullen to see the ones in street clothes. It’s like a sign to him that there’s a way out of here, that he can make it. One day that could be him; no longer a patient, out in the world with a support group to come back to when he needs it.

            With that little bit of comfort, he manages to stand a bit straighter and walks forward to take a chair. He sits beside one of the members in street clothes, an older man with red hair and a red goatee, wearing a fisherman’s sweater and khakis. He’s clutching a coffee tightly in his hand, and looks over to see Cullen taking his seat.

            The man looks him over briefly, taking in the hoodie and sweats, and gives him a reassuring smile. “How long have you been here?” he asks.

            “A few months,” Cullen answers, and hates that even though he’s beginning to feel calmer his voice still sounds a bit shaky.

            “May I – withdrawal? Or?” the man looks genuinely curious as he takes in the sight of the bags that remain under Cullen’s eyes.

            “Yes, lyrium,” he says.

            The man nods and gives a bright smile. “I was in your shoes once,” he says, and he reaches over to clap Cullen on the shoulder. “You can do it, you’ll be fine.”

            The words are just what he needs to hear. He gives the man a nod, unable to say anything for fear of his voice cracking embarrassingly.

            “I’m Thrask, by the way,” the man holds a hand out to him.

            “Cullen,” he introduces himself, and takes the man’s hand. “I’ve – uh, I’ve never been to one of these.”

            “Oh, they’re easy,” Thrask smiles more widely. “For the first one, you can just listen if you want. Hell, you can just listen for all of them if you want. You only have to share what you want to share.”

            Cullen nods, feeling relieved. He looks around at the others in the room and sees similar signs of trepidation, of fear. Maybe this will help.

            Maybe she’s right.

            He listens for most of the group therapy, taking in the way the other group members talk, the way they’re so free with their pain and their fears. The woman leading it, Leliana, as she introduces herself, softly encourages and listens. She prompts them, she asks gentle questions, but otherwise she lets the group members lead the discourse. Cullen doesn’t share, he doesn’t feel like he can yet. But listening to everyone else talk about their problems, listening to Leliana gently explaining the brain and its response to trauma, makes him feel better.

            After the meeting he considers standing and talking to Thrask, or maybe speaking to Leliana. Instead he panics and decides to leave, deciding to ease into everything. He has a private therapy session that afternoon. He needs to pace himself.

            His therapist is a bald elf, and for a moment Cullen is surprised because he can still just barely feel the magic in the air around the man. He’s nervous, being alone in a room with a mage, and he hesitates in the doorway.

            The man looks up and holds his gaze for a long moment. “Ah, Cullen, I presume,” he greets. “Please, do come sit down.”

            But still Cullen remains where he is.

            “I see,” his therapist muses with a small nod of his head. “It’s my magic, isn’t it?”

            Cullen gulps and nods.

            “Is it just that I am a mage, or that we are alone?” the therapist continues.

            “B-both,” Cullen confesses.

            The man considers him for a moment. “Would you feel better if we went somewhere else? We can conduct these sessions anywhere. We could go outside, we could go to the cafeteria. The waiting room. Anywhere you’d like.”

            Cullen contemplates, and decides he wouldn’t mind sitting in the sun in the courtyard. “Could we – maybe the courtyard, outside?”

            The elf nods and stands, gesturing for Cullen to lead the way. They slowly walk down the halls, his therapist letting him set the pace, letting him set the tone.

            “My name is Solas, by the way,” he says after a few long moments spent in silence. “Dr. Trevelyan thought that I might be best suited to help you with everything that you are facing.”

            “She did?” he asks, slightly surprised. He didn’t realize she had hand selected his therapist too.

            “Yes,” the other man replies. “She seems to have high hopes that a majority of your issues are tied to your struggles with PTSD and the like. She has a theory that your withdrawal symptoms are being compounded by those issues, that they are psychosomatic in nature.”

            “Psycho -” Cullen frowns.

            “Psychosomatic,” Solas replies with a nod. “She believes that they are due to your mind’s influence on your body, and not the other way around. I have experience with these things, and so she asked me to take you on as a patient.”

            Cullen keeps walking, lost in thought.

            He knows how much time his doctor spends with each of her patients. He can tell just how much effort she puts into detailed plans for them, treatments meant to help them all achieve recovery as painlessly as possible.

            He’s never given it much thought, though, but now that he thinks about it, it makes sense that she did hand select his therapist. Every time he sees her she looks harried and full of too much nervous energy. It’s like she’s trying and trying to fit in as much work as she can, to get as much done as she can. It’s obvious in her eyes just how much she cares. He’s still puzzled by that, though, considering the stark differences between she and her patients.

            “So, how have you been feeling?” Solas asks as they reach the courtyard. He leads Cullen to a small table under the large tree in the center of the courtyard, and they take seats across from each other.

            Cullen feels more at peace out here in the courtyard. He feels less suffocated, less concerned that he’s with a mage. He wonders a bit if it was the tight space and not the man himself. “I’ve been…feeling better, I suppose,” he begins to answer slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve never been in therapy, I’m not sure -”

            “We can talk about whatever you like,” Solas replies easily. “This is our first session, and I would just like to see how you’ve been feeling. We can discuss your withdrawal, we can discuss your group session from earlier – or we can discuss Kinloch or Kirkwall. We can talk about why you resigned from the Templars. Or, we can even just talk about the weather.”

            Cullen nods, but isn’t sure which he’d like to start with. “It’s – nice being out in the sun,” he finally says, almost timidly. “Thank you for letting us sit out here.”

            “My sole concern with these sessions is your comfort. We can always meet out here, if you like,” Solas smiles at him. “Besides fresh air, is there anything else that has been helping?”

            “Reading,” Cullen answers. “I’ve been enjoying taking the time to read. It makes me feel…less useless.”

            “Have you been feeling under stimulated, perhaps?”

            “Yes and no. My brain wants to be active, but everything – hurts. Everything takes me longer than normal to process.”

            “I see,” Solas nods for a few moments as he looks out over his tented fingers. “Have you been feeling physically restless? Longing to train again? Or is it just your mind?”

            “I’ve still been weak, so I haven’t felt the need to train,” Cullen admits, almost embarrassed by the confession. There was a time he wouldn’t have gone so long without training at all. But now, he’s more upset by the stagnation of his mind.

            “Has your mind felt restless?”

            “Yes, I suppose you could say that,” he answers.

            “I may have a few suggestions, if you’d care to hear them,” Solas tells him. “This facility offers classes, it offers activities that may help. And considering the psychosomatic nature of your symptoms, I would encourage you to seek those activities out.”

            Cullen regards the other man carefully, considering.

            “Take time to learn a new skill. Read and discuss what you read with others, start a small book club. Do something as simple as play board games. Play chess,” Solas gestures to the chess tables that are nearby in the courtyard. “Keeping your mind active will help.”

            Cullen nods absently, thinking over his advice.

            It seems easy enough, and he’s already been thinking about finding something to occupy his mind with. The entire notion is incredibly appealing, especially if it helps him recover.

            The rest of the therapy session goes smoothly, and Cullen finds he can speak quite easily to the elven therapist. Nothing major or important is covered, except for small tips to make it through the day. Solas was right – he’s willing to speak about whatever made Cullen comfortable.

            Their session finishes with Cullen promising to focus on finding ways to entertain his mind, and Solas seems pleased.

            Cullen finds himself surprised that his therapist doesn’t push him to talk about his past, instead letting him guide the conversation. He thinks back on it, though, and feels a little ashamed about how frequently it wandered back to his doctor.

            She’s fascinating, though, and would be even without her substantial beauty. He’s still curious about her dedication to lyrium withdrawal and Templars, but beyond that he knows he just enjoys all of his time spent with her. Her soft smile is soothing. He’s fascinated by her small giggling laugh, which usually occurs only briefly before she straightens herself and clears her throat, like she doesn’t want anyone to know she was laughing.

            After his therapy session he wanders back to his room, and along the way he runs into her. She smiles brightly and stops in the hallway to talk to him.

            “How did everything go today, Cullen?” she asks.

            “It went – surprisingly well, actually,” he admits. He notices her smile brightening as he says it.

            “Wonderful,” she says. “Hopefully with only a month of two of therapy, we should be able to get you out of here.”

            He raises his eyebrows, unsure if he thinks that’s too soon or not soon enough.

            “Is that not what you wanted to hear?” she asks softly, almost sounding like she’s teasing him.

            “I – I’m sorry, I just…I’ve been away from home for so long, I don’t feel like I actually have somewhere to go back to.”

            She gives a soft chuckle, her beautiful eyes sparkling as she looks at him. “Of course you do,” she sighs. “All in good time. We'll get you there."

     

* * *

 

 

            It’s one of the worst things she does, and sometimes she feels guilty about it after.

            But in the moment, she doesn’t regret it a bit, because Maker does it feel _good_ when it pays off.

            Grayson is a jealous man, an insecure man, and a slob.

            Evelyn’s out of his league, and they’re both incredibly aware that she is, though they often try to ignore it.

            She’s a noble, though she tries her best not to parade it around. She seeks a life of academia and service, even though she’s set to inherit her family’s fortune and estate. She’s not a doctor because she needs the money, and she’s one of the rare few who doesn’t have any student loans to pay back now that she’s done with her residency.

            Grayson is a commoner, up to his eyeballs in student debt, and he’s a nurse. When they met during her residency, he liked bragging that he was dating a doctor, he loved flaunting her and showing her off. But then people started calling her “Doctor” and kept calling him “Mister” and he started to get irritated. He started to leave parties angry and pushed her against walls or bent her quickly over tables to have sex with her, trying to lay his claim and remind her that she was with _him_.

            And over time she realized that in those moments, she likes the sex the best.

            Occasionally she likes his tender attention, his soft, gentle way of making love to her. But as time’s passed it’s begun to feel a little routine, or as her girlfriend Sera teases her relentlessly, positively _vanilla_.

            It’s not that Evelyn wants anything too kinky, but Maker did she want passion. They’d almost had it when they first started dating. She still fondly remembered the first few months, after the first time they slept together. They would stay in bed all day when they didn’t have to work, tangled up and exploring each other, enthusiastic as they discovered what made each other tick.

            Now though, things feel stale.

            Except for when she can get him angry.

            And tonight, she’s somehow managed the trifecta of his triggers, until he’s positively boiling over with his passion.

            In all honesty, only the third incident is her fault. The other two had little to do with her, and were just him once again struggling with the realization that she was way, way out of his league.

            She had been walking through the hospital’s courtyard with Cullen, who had been making incredible progress. They were strolling daily through the courtyard for extended periods of time. He was spending more time out of his bed and was even reading by the windows most days, at least for an hour or two until his head started hurting him too much. He had even shown an interest in playing chess when he saw that they had a board out in the small gardens.

            “Do you know how to play?” he’d asked her, looking eagerly between she and the board.

            “I do,” she had smiled at him.

            “Maybe you could do me the honor of beating me sometime, then,” he’d laughed. “I haven’t played in years, but – it would be nice to try, at least.”

            “We can do that,” she’d agreed. “I think it would be good for you to try to put your mind to work like that.”

            He had smiled at her so warmly, and she’d had to look away and shake her head. She hated how much she loved his smile. It was highly unprofessional, thinking about that smile and how handsome it made him look.

            She’d been trying to get a handle on herself when Grayson had walked into the courtyard and seen her. He’d come over to say hello, and had even shaken the hand of the tall patient beside her, trying not to act bothered by how short he was in comparison. He had heard so much from Evelyn about Cullen’s progress that he was happy to see him out and about, looking well on the way to recovery.

            But again Cullen had slipped and called Grayson ‘Doctor,’ still forgetting that he wasn’t one. Grayson had chafed when he had to correct him again, and had then noticed the Templar looking to Evelyn for reassurance. It had been a small, embarrassed smile, but after the slip with the title, the gentle reminder that Evelyn was the doctor and the breadwinner, it had been too much. He forgot that one of Cullen’s issues was slight short-term memory loss. He forgot that the poor man was struggling.

            Instead he was just reminded of how little he felt he had to offer Evelyn. She could see it in his face, the rage and jealousy bubbling under the surface, but he hadn’t said anything there. He’d simply walked off to return to work, obviously in a towering temper.

            Evelyn had sighed, frustrated at the time, but now as she was walking into the house and again tripped over a pair of his shoes, she got a better idea.

            She can hate herself for it later, after. Right now, she just needs it, after the stressful day she’s had.

            “Grayson, do you have to leave your shoes right in the entryway like this? Can you not be bothered to simply put them against the wall, even? I swear to the Maker, I trip every time I come home,” she calls out as she walks into the house.

            She hears him swear from the living room where she can tell he’s watching sports. “Oh I’m sorry, did I not spend my entire evening after I got off from a long day of work cleaning for _m’lady_?” he snaps without getting off the sofa.

            She fights the smirk that’s threatening to come across her face. Any time he calls her _m’lady_ when he’s angry, it’s going to be good. He’s going to get desperate, and he’s going to want to make sure she knows who it is who gets to do things to her. She knows that he’s probably still picturing the scene in the courtyard, the reminder of his job, the tall blond Templar looking at Evelyn so sweetly.

            She knows if she pokes him just a little more, if she gets him angry and fighting, she can unlock the passion underneath and enjoy the make-up sex that will follow.

            “No, it’s just – it’s not that hard to put shoes away, is it?” she sighs, walking into the living room carrying her own heels in her hand. “See? Just carry them with you and drop them in the bedroom. A child could do it, honestly.”

            It’s all she needs to say, and he’s storming off the sofa, grabbing his shoes, making snide remarks, raising his voice slightly and thundering up the stairs. She follows him, sighing and trying to apologize, trying to say she was frustrated because she’d stubbed her toe.

            Sure enough he brings up the courtyard, railing against the under appreciation for nurses, for male nurses especially, for the way everyone just assumes he’s somehow less than a doctor. She agrees with all of his points wholeheartedly, but for the sake of what she’s looking forward to she pretends to be irritated that he’s bringing it all up again.

            And then finally the real kicker, he brings up the way her patients all look at her, so adoringly, so full of worship for the pretty young woman who’s taking care of them.

            _Bingo_.

            “It’s not like that, honey, you know that,” she protests. “They’re just happy someone cares, that someone’s trying to help them.”

            “Yeah, and I bet I know how they all wish they could repay you,” he scoffs. “That tall one today, especially – I don’t like the way he looks at you, Evie. He looks like he’d try to fuck you the first chance he got.”

            “That’s not true! He’s had a rough time of it, you know that,” she heaves a sigh. “He’s just happy to be making progress, he’s happy that -”

            “He’s happy that you walk around with him in those tight skirts you wear, and the way your tits keep trying to pop out of your tops -”

            “Oh please, he’s going through so much that’s probably the _last_ thing on his mind -”

            “I don’t trust how much time you spend alone with them -”

            “You don’t trust me?”

            “No, I don’t trust them! Especially not him!”

            He marches forward, his eyes sparkling with his declarations, with his anger.

            With his _passion_.

            She juts her chin out, pouting slightly. “I wish you would trust me to do my work, it’s not like I’m helpless.”

            “I know, Evie, I’m sorry,” he says, and he reaches out and takes her in his arms. “I just see men ogle you all day and I just – I wish they wouldn’t. I wish they would understand – you’re with me. We belong to one another, and they can’t have you.”

            She keeps pouting and doesn’t answer.

            “Oh Evie,” he moans, and he slides a hand into her hair and tilts her head up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. Of course I trust you, I’m just so stressed.”

            “It’s ok,” she says after a moment, but she keeps herself looking sad.

            “Can I make it up to you?” he murmurs, and he bends down to brush his lips against hers.

            “I suppose,” she says, while secretly she feels herself wanting to cheer. It was exactly what she wanted.

            He pushes her back to the bed and onto its edge, quickly pulling her clothes off. “Evie you look so good,” he moans and rubs his hands over her breasts once he’s freed them. “I want to lick you all over, I want to make you forget anyone else exists or ever fucked you.”

            She smiles softly and moans, letting him push her shoulders back onto the bed. It’s always a good time when he starts talking like this, when he starts talking about staking his claim. When he starts describing what he wants to do to her. In a bit, he’ll be buried deep inside her asking her who gets to take her like he does, making her say his name while he thrusts into her and works double time with his fingers to make her come.

            He spreads her legs a little roughly and bends over her, burying his face between them. His tongue snakes out and he eagerly begins lapping at her already eager pearl, the same way he did the very first night they were together. She moans at the sensations, she thinks back to that night. Their second date and he had pushed her skirt up and gone down on her until she’d felt she would pass out. If only she’d known then that in the future it would take so much work to get him to do this, that he wasn’t usually that passionate or giving…

            She loses track of her distracting thoughts as she focuses on the feeling, the keen way he’s licking her and moaning, occasionally stopping to talk dirty to her and sing her praises. She closes her eyes, already feeling like she’s about to come. When was the last time he’d even done this for her? She can’t remember, but she can perfectly remember the last time she had her mouth on him. It had been earlier that week.

            With her eyes closed her mind wanders, focusing on the feeling between her legs and savoring how close she already is. He starts teasing her, trying to prolong it, and she groans desperately. She loves it when he does that.

            She knows he’s looking up at her for a moment before he continues, but she keeps her eyes shut as she enjoys herself. She tries to picture it, though, and when he resumes an image comes clearly into her mind of a head between her legs.

            A golden, wavy-haired head, with amber eyes watching her as she looks down at him. Stubble tickling her thighs, his scarred lip brushing against her clit as he moves to suck it lightly, watching her keenly as he slides his tongue into her wet heat –

            She moans and cries out as she falls apart, and the image of his face between her legs only intensifies as she bucks her hips to rub against him in response to her shattering orgasm.

            Her eyes fly open when she’s finished, and her stomach floods with guilt.

            She’s not ashamed this time of the way she picked a fight, of the way she tried to find a way to enjoy some make-up sex.

            She’s ashamed that she was just picturing grinding her hips against _his_ face. Instead she's doing it to the man who was worried that _he_ wanted to fuck her. But she's the one, apparently.

            She's actually the one he needs to worry about, because she had just vividly imagined Cullen being the one doing these things to her instead of her partner – as her partner was doing them to her.

            She’s still distracted by her shame when he rolls her over and slides himself inside her. He’s gripping her hips tightly, he’s thrusting as deep as he can, and he’s still keeping up a deep trickle of praise as he moves within her.

            But in this position, her traitorous mind is still picturing another, and she can’t stop it no matter how hard she tries. She keeps thinking about his crooked grin, keeps thinking about the way his face lit up when they talked about chess. She thinks about how he still grips her arm sometimes as they walk, and how she’s always so conscious of his near presence as they go through their daily paces. He looks down at her to smile, he’s always so ready to look at her –

            “Oh _fuck_ ,” she groans softly as she feels herself fall apart again, and she misses the things Grayson is saying as he finishes with her. She’s too busy biting her tongue to keep herself from moaning the name of the one she was thinking about.

            _Cullen, yes_ , she thinks in her head, and bites her tongue harder to keep it from escaping her lips.

            “Evie, Evie, Evie,” Grayson moans, his hands wandering over and kneading her back. “That was amazing.”

            “Yeah,” she agrees breathlessly, but she’s agreeing for a different reason than she should be. “Yeah, it was.”

            It was amazing.

            Because she had been thinking about someone else the whole time.


	4. Recovery Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has now been split into two for length so here have an Evelyn focused angsty chapter 
> 
> xx,  
> L

            “Lookin’ _fine_ , Doctor!” one of the nurses teasingly catcalls as she rushes by.

            She giggles and waves over her shoulder in thanks but doesn’t stop to chat.

            She forgot her white coat, and she’s hurrying to the supply closet to see if she can find a spare before she starts her rounds. She tugs a little at the asymmetrical top of the dress she’s wearing, straightening it again since it’s sliding down with her hasty movements. She questions her decision once more to wear the strapless dress all day instead of just changing in her car before dinner. She knows though that if she waits to change after work, she’ll never get the chance to because she’ll be too busy and run late. Just like she always does.

            And she doesn’t want to go to her 30th birthday dinner wearing her normal work clothes.

            She smoothes the lines of the skirt, trying to adjust the asymmetrical hem as it twists a bit. She doesn’t normally wear anything this short or revealing to work, and she hopes she doesn’t see a patient before she can find a spare coat.

            Of course, just as she thinks that, she runs headfirst into someone rounding the corner.

            She gives a gasp of surprise at the contact and stumbles slightly on her heels, but strong hands grab her and pull her straight so that she doesn’t fall.

            “I’m so sorry, Doctor -” a deep voice is saying.

            “No, no it’s my fault,” she says and she looks up to see who she ran into.

            _Him_.

            Cullen is still holding her arms to make sure she’s steady, his hands calloused but cold on her skin. Part of his withdrawal, she knows, and she quickly makes a mental note to ask him about how frequently his hands are this cold once she begins her rounds.

            He’s looking her over, a funny look in his eyes as he takes in the short black cocktail dress she’s wearing. She clears her throat and takes a step back, gently trying to remove herself from his grasp.

            “Are you all right?” he asks, and his voice almost sounds lower than normal.

            She mentally shakes herself.

            _Don’t think about it. Don’t be that despicable_.

            _You’re a professional_.

            She takes a deep breath and nods her head. “Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” she says with a small chuckle. “I should have been paying attention – I didn’t step on you or anything did I? These heels are deadly.”

            “No, I’m fine,” he gives her a tentative smile. “So what’s the occasion?”

            He gestures at her dress.

            “Oh, it’s – it’s my birthday. Kind of a big one, too,” she answers before she can stop herself.

            “Happy birthday,” he tells her. “How big of a birthday? Twenty-one? Twenty-five?”

            She giggles. “No, bigger. It’s my thirtieth.”

            He smiles. “Are we having a party here, then?” He’s still taking in the look of her dress.

            She wishes she hadn’t forgotten her coat, because right now she can’t handle the curious twinkle in his eyes. She can’t handle the way he’s hesitantly noticing her exposed collar bones and cleavage.

            She’s still been picturing him when she’s in bed with Grayson, and it’s getting to the point that she hates herself.

            She’s contemplated passing him on to another doctor, but she can’t. He’s still in a precarious situation with his withdrawal, and she’s the only one with the expertise to help get him through it. Even Cassandra wouldn’t be able to keep as close an eye on him as he needs.

            Therapy has been helping, occupying his mind with reading and chess has been helping. But they tried taking him off the sleeping pills for a few nights, and he steadily declined as his night terrors made a rapid, overwhelming return.

            “No, I just – didn’t want to have to change,” she finally answers lamely. She clears her throat. “I should be going, I have rounds.”

            “Of course,” he steps aside. “Oh, Doctor, would you – would you care to play chess later if you have time? Thrask isn’t able to make it today, and I was -”

            His golden eyes are so imploring, like a puppy’s. She has to stop herself from saying yes in a heartbeat.

            But she thinks about trying to sit across from him playing chess in this dress and knows she can’t handle it. “Can we take a rain check for tomorrow? I have a lot to do today, but I should have time then.”

            He nods a little sadly. “Sure, tomorrow works. I’ll still be here,” he gives a small crooked grin like he’s trying to joke, but there’s something more underneath the humor and the sigh that accompanies it.

            “I’ll see you in a few minutes for rounds, okay?” she says, and she can’t stop herself from giving his arm a quick squeeze.

            She shakes her head at herself as she hurries away from him to continue her quest for a coat. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s never been this distracted by someone, she’s never been unable to shake off her thoughts like this.

            She finally reaches the supply closet and finds a spare coat, pulling it on and buttoning it to cover her dress. She tries to steady herself and sets out to begin rounds. She saves Cullen for last, trying to focus on her other patients to redirect her mind before she goes to see him.

            When she reaches his room she knocks on the door and waits for him to call for admittance. She hears his deep voice respond, and notices it still sounds a little melancholy.

            She opens the door and sees him sitting in the chair beside the window, looking out. He’s holding some paper and a pen, balanced on a book to use as a hard surface. He hardly glances up when she comes in, but he greets her with a soft ‘hello.’

            “So, how are you feeling today, Cullen?” she asks as she approaches where he sits.

            “I’m – I’m fine,” he answers.

            She can tell he isn’t.

            “Are you in pain again?” she prompts him. “Did your night terrors keep you up last night?”

            “No, no, it’s -” he looks down at the blank sheet of paper before him and trails off.

            Or rather, she thinks it’s blank. As she looks at it she sees that it has one small line written at the top.

            _“Dear Mia,”_ it says, but the rest is blank.

            “Is something the matter?” she asks, and leans against the window ledge in front of where he sits.

            “I – I…” he looks out the window sheepishly. “I’m trying to write to my sister, and I can’t seem to think of anything to say.”

            Evelyn nods slowly for a moment. “Does she know where you are?”

            “I didn’t tell her, but she tracked me down,” he sighs. He pulls a letter from the book he’s holding and hands it over. She reads through it quickly, and sighs.

            His sister is upset, and concerned.

            “It’s understandable,” she says, looking back up at him from the letter. “And she doesn’t sound angry, it sounds more like she wishes she could have been here for you.”

            “I know,” he agrees softly. “But I’ve never been good at keeping her updated, and now…I haven’t written to her since Kirkwall. It’s been so long, what do I say?”

            “Anything you want,” she suggests. “Tell her about your day, tell her about chess. Tell her about a book you read. She’ll love to hear anything from you, no matter how small.”

            He looks up at her, a strange look in his eyes. “You don’t think she’ll be annoyed to hear from me about something so small, after years of not writing?”

            “She’s your sister,” she points out with a smile. “It’s obvious she just wants to hear from you.”

            He stares at her for a moment and then nods, looking back down to the paper with a thoughtful smile. “I suppose I could ask her for some tips about chess, she always was a better player than me.”

            “That sounds like a great idea,” she agrees. “Do you mind, can I do a quick check up? I noticed in the hall that your hands were icy.”

            He sighs but nods, setting the book and paper aside so she can take his hands to inspect them. She takes his cold fingers between hers and squeezes them gently, turning his hands over to look at his palms. They’re slightly pink but otherwise she doesn’t notice anything terribly concerning.

            “Do your hands hurt?” she asks, and he gives a slow shake of his head. “Are your feet cold as well?”

            “Yes,” he answers. She notices he’s intently watching her fingers moving along his skin. He doesn’t have the same timid, distrusting look he used to have in his eyes whenever she had to touch him before. Now, he almost looks calm and content.

            She clears her throat and lets go of his hands. “It’s your circulation, I think. That happens with withdrawal. Just keep moving, and maybe we’ll turn the thermostat up in here.”

            She reaches over and presses her hand to his forehead, making sure it was just his extremities that are cold. He looks up at her while she presses her fingers to his skin, an odd twinkle in his eyes, and she forgets what she was going to ask him for a moment. His amber eyes are too soft, too sweetly endearing as he watches her.

            She shakes herself again and steps back. “Well, I think your fever has finally gone, which is good,” she tells him. “How has therapy been going? Still helpful?”

            He nods eagerly, but he’s still watching her with that look in his eyes. “Solas seems to think I’m making progress, even though my night terrors have come back now. He thinks I need to find a way to confront them.”

            “Well, he’s an expert on the Fade and dreams as well, so hopefully he can help you overcome them,” she smiles, and he gladly returns it. “And your group sessions – Leliana said you’re finally opening up?”

            He nods slightly, but he doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t need him to, though. All she needs to know is if it’s helping.

            “I’m glad to hear it,” she says. “I’m pleased with your progress. I stand by what I said – maybe only another month and we can get you home. Maybe you can go visit Mia, and tell her things in person instead of through a letter.”

            He nods and looks back down to the paper in front of him. “Can I ask your advice about something?”

            “Of course,” she answers.

            “There’s – there’s a gym here, isn’t there?” he looks back up and she gives him an affirmative nod. “Would it be all right if I tried exercising some? I miss being active, and I’m not in as much pain anymore.”

            “I think that’s an excellent idea,” she readily agrees. “Take it slow at first, and listen to your body at all times. But the exercise will work wonders for you.”

            He nods eagerly, pleased by her answer.

            The smile on his face goads her into teasing him, despite herself. “Not to mention it will help you work off all those sweets you sneak from the cafeteria.”

            He blushes slightly and gives her a sheepish grin.

            That crooked grin that keeps haunting her when she’s having sex with another man.

            “I seem to have developed a sweet tooth,” he confesses lightly.

            She clears her throat and looks away from his tantalizing smile. “That can happen with a withdrawal like yours – your body is craving, and sugar is a good substitute. Just be careful that you don’t overindulge, but of course a little is fine. I was just teasing.”

            “I know,” he says softly. “I was hoping me bribing you with cookies occasionally was keeping you from mentioning my indulgences.”

            She looks back down at him, and her heart speeds up when she sees the gleam in his eyes. She clears her throat again and quickly takes a few steps to the door. “Cookies are fine, like I said just – just not too many,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. That look he was giving her was sending thrills through her body. “In the meantime, write to your family and take it slow easing back into your training. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

            She turns back to face him, confident now that there’s some distance between them.

            He shakes his head, but he’s still watching her eagerly. “And we’re still on for chess tomorrow?”

            She gives a jerky bob of her head to confirm, and then manages a quick smile. “Until then, Cullen,” she says and hurriedly departs.

            She needs to stop this. He’s attractive, but that’s it.

            He’s her patient.

            She resolves herself to forget about it.

 

 

 

            _“Happy birthday!”_

            She’s unprepared for the roar of voices that greet her when she enters the room, thoroughly not expecting to be greeted with a large crowd of familiar faces. Grayson is smiling beside her, laughing at the look of surprise on her face.

            “Oh Maker, I had no idea!” she’s laughing as well, and Grayson claps his hands.

            “Yes, I pulled it off!” he announces gleefully, and everyone in the room is still clapping and laughing. He pulls her into a one-armed hug and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Happy birthday, Evie,” he tells her, and she smiles at him.

            She certainly wasn’t expecting a surprise party.

            The back room of the restaurant is full of her friends and co-workers, and she begins to make her way through the crowd, stopping and hugging people as she passes. Cassandra is even there, holding a martini and actually wearing a dress. Evelyn makes sure she takes a moment to compliment the other woman before she tries to make her way to the small cluster of her close friends.

            “Sparkles!” Varric cries, and Sera and Dorian turn around to face her as well. “So, finally the big _three-oh_ , huh?”

            She chuckles. “Thanks for reminding me, Varric,” she rolls her eyes in jest. “Now I need a drink.”

            “Here you are, my dear,” Dorian passes her a glass of wine it seems he ordered just for her. “I knew you’d need one as soon as you got here.”

            Evelyn laughs and kisses him on the cheek. “You’re the best, as always.”

            “No, wait, Ev, we’re doing shots,” Sera says, and she turns to grab a tray laden with shots behind her. “Light them on fire, Dorian, come on!”

            “I have work tomorrow, Sera,” Evelyn protests, laughing at the sight of so many shots on the tray.

            “More for me, then, eh?” her friend quips, and she begins to take the shots after Dorian lights them on fire. Both of them are laughing wickedly, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

            “Where’s Bull, Dorian?” Evelyn asks as she takes a deep gulp of her wine.

            “Oh he’ll be here soon, his job that he was on today went a little long,” her friend answers as he lights another shot on fire for the elf before him. “You know, Sera, even elves can get alcohol poisoning.”

            But they both simply laugh and carry on.

            Evelyn spends the party being greeted by everyone, trying to get a bite of food but always getting interrupted by a friend or co-worker with well wishes and jokes. Dorian keeps passing her wine, though, and soon she feels content and forgets about her stress. She forgets about work, she forgets about her problem patients, about how much she still needs to do for them all.

            She finally just feels pleasantly happy.

            “All right, all right, can I – can I have everyone’s attention?” Grayson calls suddenly from the front of the room. He tries again, and finally Sera whistles and yells “Oy! Listen up!” loudly so that everyone stops talking.

            “Thanks, Sera,” Grayson says. “And thank you, everyone, for coming out tonight – I know we’ve all had long days and we’re all working tomorrow, but I appreciate you taking the time out to help me surprise the most beautiful, most wonderful woman in all of Thedas.”

            There’s a scattering of clapping and laughter, Sera lets out a whoop, and Grayson turns to look at Evelyn. She smiles, her cheeks feeling warm with the attention and the wine. “Thanks, honey,” she giggles from where she stands.

            He gestures for her to come stand by him, and she takes a few steps forward to join him. “I, uh, I had one more surprise, tonight, and if you’ll all indulge me for a few moments,” he clears his throat and turns to face her, looking nervous.

            Her heart suddenly speeds up as she takes in the look on his face. Her stomach ties into knots.

            Surely not…

            “Evie, I’ve loved you since the day we met – remember? It was the first day of your residency, and you didn’t know where to find the tongue depressors?” he chuckles and she gives him a small smile. Several people in the crowd who are familiar with the story laugh. “I knew then, when I was watching you flustered and embarrassed that you couldn’t find something as simple as a tongue depressor that you were the one for me. And I’ve loved every moment of the last three and a half years together, and I -”

            He pauses and reaches into his pocket before he kneels, holding up a small black box. He opens it, and she sees, sitting in the center – a sparkling, beautiful, diamond ring.

            “Evie, I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he says. “Will you marry me?”

            Her heart is positively pounding in her chest, rattling her ribcage and aching with how fast it’s going. Her stomach is so knotted she almost feels sick, and thanks to the honest clarity of the wine she comes to the starkest realization she could in this situation.

            _No._

            She stares down at the ring, and she tries to picture her future, she tries to picture old age.

            She can picture it for herself.

            She can’t picture it with him.

            She always thought when she was asked she would know, in an instant, what she wanted. And she’s right, she does.

            And she knows then that it’s not him. She loves him, in her own way. But marrying him would feel like giving up, it would feel like throwing in the towel.

            She wants more, she wants something else. Even if it’s a crazy dream, even if she’s gotten her hopes set up too high by her romantic ideals. Even if it means in the end she’s alone, she can’t bring herself to give up searching for it. She feels like she deserves to find something that makes her heart soar, not makes her feel complacent and simply _content_.

            She wants the kind of love that if they asked her this question, she would say yes in a heartbeat instead of hesitating as much as she is right now. Her inability to say yes, her inability to stop hesitating tells her everything she needs to know about how she wants to answer him.

            “E-Evie?” Grayson prompts her, looking concerned that she’s still simply staring down at the ring. “I – um -”

            Her eyes are wide, and she’s realizing she has a whole audience of people holding their breath as they watch this awkward moment drag on.

            She wishes he hadn’t chosen to do it in front of so many people.

            “C-can we talk?” she says softly, her voice barely audible and shaking.

            His face falls, and she can tell he knows.

            “Please, Grayson, I just – let’s go somewhere private, please -” she begins to say, but he’s standing up and looking around himself as if he’s lost.

            She can see tears sparkling in his eyes, but he clears his throat and closes the box.

            “Grayson, I’m – I’m sorry -”

            “It’s fine, Evelyn,” he cuts her off, and she can hear the pain in his voice.

            “Please, let’s go somewhere -”

            “No, it’s fine,” he snaps, his tone harsher than before.

            She wants to cry, and she can hear the murmurs of the crowd watching them. Dorian and Sera suddenly begin a very loud conversation about the latest trip Dorian and Bull went on. They’re trying to distract from the awkward moment, but everyone’s eyes are still glued to the couple that’s falling apart in front of them.

            “Wait -” Evelyn says, reaching out to grab his arm to stop him walking away.

            “Don’t touch me,” he yells and jerks away from her. The action makes the wine in her other hand slosh and she’s immediately covered in the red contents of the glass. He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at the floor. “I – I should have known I’d never be good enough for you. I wish you hadn’t let me get my hopes up.”

            Tears spill from her eyes. “That’s not – that’s not what this is -”

            “I’ll stay at my brother’s, I’ll – I’ll get my things later. You can have the house,” he grits out, and he turns and marches out the door of the event room, into the main part of the restaurant. His brother and his wife glare at Evelyn from where they were standing at the back of the room, and they quickly follow after him.

            Evelyn stands in the crowded room, covered in sticky red wine and tears, blinking rapidly as her vision blurs.

            She feels someone put their arm around her, another hand takes her now empty glass from her and passes her a napkin. Sera and Dorian have her, and they escort her over to a chair.

            “What an _ass_ ,” Sera says.

            “Are you all right, dear?” Dorian asks her quietly.

            “Here, Sparkles, another napkin – sheesh, he managed to spill that everywhere, didn’t he?” Varric is trading her the napkin she has in her hands for another.

            “Ev, don’t beat yourself up about it,” Sera says. “Fuck him, right?”

            “Putting you on the spot like that,” Varric sighs. “Never a good idea.”

            A large booming voice suddenly echoes through the room, and she can tell that Bull is finally here. Dorian stands and she can feel him gesture his lover over. “Evelyn, dear, we’ll get you home,” he says. “Here, Bull -”

            “What did I miss? Everyone’s so – hey, Evie, you okay?”

            “Grayson proposed, she said no – well, she didn’t say anything, actually, but come on,” Dorian is quickly filling in the Qunari. “Let’s get her home.”

            She’s only vaguely aware of her friends escorting her out. Varric assures her that he’ll get the presents that everyone brought her to her later, and Sera smuggles a bottle of wine into her arms to send her home with.

            Dorian and Bull escort her out and help her into Dorian’s fancy black car. She doesn’t bother putting her seatbelt on in the backseat, instead she lies down on the seat and continues to cry, awkwardly cradling the bottle of wine that Sera pushed into her arms. She barely notices the car ride, barely notices that the other two are talking in hushed tones.

            They finally stop and she feels Bull pull her into his arms to carry her into her house.

            “Here, I’ve got her keys,” Dorian says and he hurries forward to open the door.

            They take her inside and set her down on the sofa, and Dorian helps pull her shoes off. Bull comes back from the kitchen with a bottle opener, and he takes the wine from her to remove the cork.

            “Dear, do you want us to stay with you?” Dorian asks.

            “I don’t know,” she mutters.

            “Here, how about this – Bull, go raid her wine rack, I know she has a couple other bottles,” Dorian says to his partner. “And then I’ll get some blankets and we’ll all cuddle up in your bed and watch movies – I think you could use some Cary Grant right now, don’t you think?”

            Bull passes her the wine bottle that he’s opened, and she begins to drink from it, not bothering to ask for a glass. She’s past caring.

            “That sounds fine,” she agrees finally.

            “Excellent,” Dorian says, and he helps her off the sofa. Bull wanders off to find wine and Evelyn waits for Dorian to grab blankets before they head upstairs.

            The three of them cram themselves into her bed, Bull in the middle and the other two leaning back against his shoulders. Dorian insists on watching “Bringing Up Baby,” even though Bull suggests “His Girl Friday,” and Evelyn shrugs when asked her opinion. She continues to drink her wine from the bottle, curled up against the massive chest of her Qunari friend.

            In the morning she doesn’t remember falling asleep. She remembers getting up at one point to get sick, having finished almost the entire bottle of wine by herself. She immediately groans when she sits up and presses an ice spell to her temples, trying to dull the intense headache she’s suffering from.

            Dorian and Bull are cuddling beside her, and she takes a moment to marvel at what great friends she has before she heaves herself out of bed.

            She tries not to think about the night before. She tries not to think about the fact that she’ll likely see him at the hospital today.

            Instead, she takes a shower and an elfroot potion before she dresses for work. She’ll be professional. She has patients to help, people’s lives to save.

            That needs to be enough for her, since love and romance seem not to be her forte.


	5. Recovery Pt. 3

            Cullen is irritated.

            It’s been ages since he felt this way, as he’s actually been feeling really well lately.

            But his therapy sessions have been bringing it all up, and now his head aches and he shakes as he makes his way down the halls to the gym. He was feeling better until he let his therapist begin to try to help him with his night terrors, and now he feels like he’s getting worse.

            He snaps the towel against his leg, trying to fight the irritation building up inside him. Training will help, going to the gym will help. It has to. If anything else, it has a punching bag, and he can hit something to get this frustration out.

            “Cullen,” he hears a soft voice call out.

            He turns and sees Dr. Trevelyan standing there, a small smile on her face. It looks slightly forced, though, and she has bags under her eyes.

            “Heading to the gym?” she asks.

            “Yes,” he answers, and he takes a few steps back to speak with her. “I went yesterday, too, I just did a short run but – I think it helped some.”

            “I’m glad to hear it,” she says. She sets the phone she was holding down on the counter of the nurses’ station and steps forward. “Have you already been doing some exercise? You look a little flushed and clammy…may I?”

            She holds her hands up hesitantly and he gives her a nod. He does feel a little feverish, but it happens so frequently he’s gotten used to it by now. He didn’t really notice that he was feeling that way until she mentioned it.

            She stands on her tip toes in her heels, and he lowers his face down a bit so she can reach his forehead a bit more easily. She presses her hand to his forehead, her other at his temples, and then on his neck. She pushes his hair back at the roots to feel that it’s slightly damp. She’s frowning, peering into his eyes, and this close he marvels again at her eyes’ color. Even in his years as a Templar he never saw a mage with this eye color, and he’s confused by it.

            She sighs and then purses her lips. “Stay here for a moment, I’ll be right back.”

            She walks away and hurries to a nearby room, closing the door behind her.

            Cullen stands watching her go, wondering what she’s getting now. It’s always some new medicine, some new potion or poultice she wants him to try. They work for a time, but then after a while they just stop. He hates it.

            He’s starting to feel like a walking, living experiment. Like a test subject.

            He tries to bury his ungratefulness, realizing that everything she’s doing is to help him. It’s hard to remember that all the time though when he feels like he hasn’t had any privacy or dignity in months. At least she isn’t the one who pokes and prods him, that seems to be reserved for the nurses. Her exams usually involve running her hands over his skin, as if she can tell just from touch how he’s feeling or what he’s in need of.

            He suddenly wonders if she’s been using magic on him and he hasn’t realized it.

            His heart beats a little faster at the thought, wondering if she hasn’t been telling him because she knows he won’t take it well. His mind starts racing, and he walks over to the counter to lean against it, his hands braced on the edge. He’s trying to calm his mind, trying to calm his heart, but he can’t. He hangs his head and tries to take deep breaths, just like Leliana and Solas have been saying to.

            He counts to five, slowly.

            It doesn’t work, so he does it again.

            He starts to feel a bit better, and he finally notices there’s a few short vibrations on the counter his hands are resting against. He opens his eyes and looks down.

            It’s her phone, and she’s getting a persistent string of text messages.

            He looks around, but no one’s nearby. She doesn’t have her phone password protected, it doesn’t look like, and his curiosity gets the better of him.

            Anything to distract himself, even though he knows he shouldn’t do it.

            He swipes her phone open and sees that she has seven new texts. He glances around once more and opens them.

            They’re from ‘Grayson,’ and he raises his eyebrows as he reads through them. They’re long and rambling, with run on sentences full of bitterness. Whoever is sending them, they sound like an ass.

            Phrases like “how could you humiliate me like that,” and “I should have known you were too stuck up to say yes,” stand out to him. So do “I can’t believe I spent the money on a ring for you,” and “I’m getting my things this afternoon and I’ll leave my key under the rock.”

            Finally, “don’t contact me. Have a nice life, _my lady_ Trevelyan.”

            While Cullen is reading through the text, another comes in from “Marian H.”

 

            _Hey love, sorry we couldn’t make it last night – V told me we missed quite the evening. I’m sorry to hear about you and Grayson – Fen and I are around tonight, let us take you to dinner and you can hang out with your favorite niece and nephew. AKA I can’t find a babysitter this short notice, but whatever, you know you love the twins. Does 6pm work? Love you, don’t let that stupid fucker get you down. You’re amazing. Xx_

 

            He frowns a little, vaguely recognizing the name, but he rationalizes that it can’t be the same Marian H. There’s no way his doctor is friends with the great Hawke from Kirkwall. Then again it mentions a “Fen,” and wasn’t Hawke’s lover named something similar? He can’t remember.

            He curses his bad memory, and the lyrium that caused it.

            He hears a door close behind him and jumps slightly, shuffling his feet a little along the counter so he’s not standing right by her phone. He regrets looking, he hates his curiosity. But he had needed a distraction, as guilty as it’s now making him feel that he pried.

            “Here,” he hears her voice say behind him. “This should help with the fever.”

            He turns around to face her and sees her holding out a small vial and two pills in her hand. He hesitantly holds his hands out and takes both from her.

            “What are they this time?” he grits out, and immediately hates that he can’t help snapping at her. He’s still wondering if she’s been using magic on him.

            She raises an eyebrow at him, looking irritated. That’s unusual; when he’s snapped at her before, she’s never acted annoyed or angry.

            “Elfroot and ibuprofen,” she says shortly. “And be sure to drink plenty of water while you train.”

            She gives him a curt nod and turns to the counter. She grabs her phone without looking at it and begins to walk away.

            “Wait, I’m – I’m sorry,” he calls after her, but she keeps walking at a brisk pace down the hall.

            He’s back to hating himself.

            How much has she done over these last few months to help him heal?

            Far too much for him to treat her this way. She’s helped him more than anyone. She’s been professional and courteous, and she always asks him before she touches him.

            And then he thinks about it, and he realizes that’s the thing.

            She’s always asked him before she’s made any sort of contact, she’s moved slowly and conscientiously. She must know what he went through, because she’s too considerate of him to be ignorant of the details.

            But she’s never brought them up, she’s never pressed him to tell her. Yet she makes certain that she gets his permission to initiate contact with him. The only times he can think that she didn’t, was that first few days, when he was mostly unconscious and she saved his life.

            Maker, what a fool he is.

            She wouldn’t use magic on him without his consent.

            He pops the pills in his mouth and uses the elfroot potion to wash them down before he sets the vial on the counter of the nurses’ station. He hits his small towel against his leg again as he continues on his way, angry at himself.

            He determines to make use of the punching bag to work through this regret and anger.

 

 

 

            He realizes that they didn’t set an exact time for chess, and he walks into the hall and looks around. She’s nowhere in sight, and he considers asking at the nurses’ station, until he sees which nurse is there. He doesn’t particularly like her; she’s a little too talkative and he won’t be able to get away if he stops to ask her where Dr. Trevelyan is. She’ll probably spend more time talking about her cats.

            Cullen hates cats. They make him sneeze uncontrollably.

            He sighs and looks around, and finally decides to go for a walk in the courtyard. He can look for her later. What he really wants at the moment is sunlight.

            And to apologize to her.

            He’s still beating himself up for snapping at her like he does sometimes. He’s certain she’s used to it, that every one of her patients must do it to her all the time. That doesn’t make him feel better.

            In fact, it makes him feel worse. He doesn’t want to be as bad as her other patients. He wants to be better, to do better.

            He wanders into the courtyard and begins a slow pace through it. He’s come to love this area, which is usually unpopulated. He finds it surprising, but he doesn’t mind. He enjoys the solitude.

            He makes his way around the large tree in the middle, and as he approaches one of the back corners of the building he smells something that makes him pause. It’s unusual for a hospital, but he’s positive he’s smelling a lit cigarette.

            He takes a few cautious steps forward, trying not to make any noise, just curious to see who’s sneaking a smoke behind the hospital.

            He’s surprised when he sees who the rule breaker is.

            Dr. Trevelyan is crouched, leaning back against the wall, her elbows resting on her bent knees. She’s resting her forehead against the heels of her hands, and in the long, thin fingers of one of her delicate hands is a cigarette.

            He watches as she takes a long drag, and after a few moments she exhales it slowly. The smoke comes out haltingly, as if her breathing is shaky. She runs her free hand through her hair, which he realizes is down for a change. Normally she has it pulled back into a braid or a large bun, but now he sees just how long and full it is, falling like midnight curtains down her back. She must have taken it down from how she had it up earlier, because he doesn’t remember it being untamed like it is now.

            She takes another drag from her cigarette, and while he’s never thought smoking was attractive, he can’t seem to take his eyes off her full lips as they embrace the nicotine stick. She chews absently at a thumb as she exhales, and he notices that her eyes look unfocused, like she’s deep in thought as she stares ahead.

            Her phone goes off and she digs with one hand in her coat pocket, scowling at the identity of the caller. He sees her lips tighten before she answers it.

            “Weren’t you the one who said ‘don’t contact me,’” she begins the conversation without a greeting.

            He watches as she listens to the answer, her frown deepening as she does. He almost thinks he can hear a deep voice, but he can’t make out what they’re saying.

            “Are you fucking kidding me?” she says, her voice harsher than he’s ever heard it. “Fine, I don’t care – take _all_ the fucking dishes. Just get the _fuck_ out of the house. I’m done with this – I can’t believe you’re acting so immature.”

            She takes a drag as she listens to the response, and he thinks he can tell that the person on the other end has raised their voice.

            “Oh that’s rich, coming from you,” she scoffs. “You’re the one that walked out – I wanted to talk about things, but you had to be a drama queen -”

            She tries a few more halting, incomplete words, but it seems like the other person is yelling about something. She groans and takes another drag.

            “You know, this right here is why I don’t want to marry you,” she finally snaps. “Leave your key under the rock and don’t call me again.”

            She holds her phone out and hits the end call button, almost looking like she hurts her thumb doing it. She rests her forehead against the heel of her other hand, holding her phone listlessly in her hand draped over her knee. She absently takes another drag of her cigarette. It’s finally finished and she glowers at it before she puts it out on the concrete next to her foot.

             She heaves a sigh and stands up, and he doesn’t have a chance to move before she turns and catches him standing there.

            “Cullen!” she says, and she quickly pockets her phone and brushes her hands on her white coat. She blushes, like she’s embarrassed. “How – um, how long have you been standing there?”

            He flushes too. He hadn’t meant to get caught eavesdropping. “I – not long, I’m sorry, I was just going for a walk, and I -”

            She’s looking around, not meeting his eyes. Her cheeks are still pink.

            “I – is everything all right?” he asks before he can stop himself. He shouldn’t pry, she’s his doctor. But she looks so lost, so different from normal, no longer self-assured or graceful. She looks hesitant and in pain.

            “Yes, everything’s fine,” she answers quickly, and he can tell she’s trying to revert to her normal stoic grace. “How was the gym?”

            He thinks about how hard and long he had taken out his frustration on the punching bag, he thinks about how sore and weak he already is. “It went well, I think,” he answers less than honestly. He knows he’ll be feeling it worse tomorrow.

            “Good, I’m glad,” she says. “The endorphins and activity will be good for you, so long as you take it slow. I’m happy you’re – you’re trying to go…”

            She trails off, nodding. It’s clear she’s distracted.

            “Um, are we – can we still play chess today?” he asks. He realizes he’s worried she’ll say no, unsure what he’ll do the rest of the day if she does.

            He’s starting to feel pent up. He worries if she says no he’ll go back to the gym and push himself too far.

            She looks at him for a moment, considering, before she slowly nods. “Sure, I – I have time right now, if you’d like.”

            He nods, more eagerly than he means to. Maybe he can apologize, maybe he can actually win a game. It’s been so long since he played and Thrask keeps beating him. But he’s determined to get better.

            She gives a small tug of a smile and walks in the direction of the chess table. He follows, letting her lead the way. He’s feeling ashamed again of how he snapped at her earlier, and he doesn’t want to walk right beside her.

            He feels like he doesn’t deserve to walk next to her.

            He frowns a bit as he thinks this, trying to decide why that matters to him.

            She takes her seat at the chess table and begins straightening the pieces. She furrows her brows a bit, trying to figure out some of the placements.

            “I think you’ll have the advantage, I haven’t had a chance to play in years,” she murmurs.

            “You haven’t played with other patients?” he asks as he helps correct a few of her placements.

            “No, I don’t really – no, I haven’t,” she answers.

            He wonders at her hesitancy.

            For a moment they both ponder the board, and he tries to think of something to say. He still wants to apologize, but it feels odd to jump straight into it.

            “Did you write to your sister?” she asks, raising her gaze to his.

            “I did,” he answers softly. “I – uh, I told her about – about therapy.”

            She only looks surprised for a moment. “I’m glad to hear it.”

            “I mean, not specifics just – just that I was going, that I’m trying to talk about it, that I’m – listening to my doctors, taking their advice.”

            She smiles a little. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear that.”

            “I – about earlier, I’m s-sorry I snapped at you,” he hates how his voice tremors as he says it.

            She shakes her head. “It’s fine, it happens. It’s understandable.”

            “It’s understandable? You’re – you’re doing too much for me. You don’t deserve that.”

            She gives a shrug and a soft laugh. “Really, it’s no issue. You at least have cause for your outbursts.” For a moment she looks contemplative, and he wonders at her thoughts. “Honestly, don’t bother yourself about it.”

            “I’m trying to be better,” he says, his voice low. He wants her to understand. He feels like maybe she will, if anybody can possibly understand how he feels. “I want to be a better man. Part of that means not – not taking this out on others. Especially not you. You’ve done so much for me, Doctor.”

            When he raises his eyes to hers, he doesn’t expect the look on her face. She almost looks like she wants to cry.

            “Thank you, Cullen,” she finally says. “I appreciate the apology. And for what it’s worth – I think you’re making great strides.”

           

 

 

 

            He thought he was passed this. He thought he was passed the night terrors, the rage, the fear and desperation.

            He thought this wouldn’t happen anymore.

            But he thinks it has to be the therapy, it has to be his sessions with Solas where they delve into his mind and confront his fears and memories.

            They’re bringing everything up, they’re making him raw.

            And now, he’s pushed himself too far.

            He snaps irritably at the nurse, he grits his teeth and slams what he’s holding down too hard on the desk. The nurse looks at him with wide eyes, taking in his mood.

            He glares at her and sneers, and makes a snide comment.

            She clears her throat and leaves, hurrying out of the room as if afraid of him.

            He hates himself, and it makes this rage, this feeling worse.

            He hears the click-clacking of heels approaching, immediately recognizing the brisk pace of Doctor Trevelyan.

            He groans and rolls his eyes, turning away from the door. Least of all right now, he wants to see her.

            He’s not even fully sure why, he just knows he doesn’t want to be faced with her soft, kind voice or her sweet face, her piercing gaze.

            He’s in a towering temper, and he knows he’ll be cruel to her.

            And he doesn’t want to be, he wants to be sweet to her. But right now it’s like a poison, and he can’t shake the feeling. He can’t resist this hatred and this rage.

            “Cullen, are you all right?” he hears behind him.

            Maker curse that soft voice.

            Why does it have to be so sweet, so caring? He hates it, he hates how perfect it sounds, how soothing and assuring it is.

            “Did she run off to find you, scared that I’m in a bad mood?” he sneers despite himself. “I’m just irritated, you didn’t need to come -”

            “So what brought this on?” she asks, and again her voice is pure patience, calm and serene.

            “All you fucking mages think you have the answers to everything,” he says, and he immediately regrets it. He hasn’t thought like that in ages, but it’s like he’s reverting. It’s like he’s stuck in Kirkwall, and he can’t shake how much he hates and distrusts mages.

            “Hmm,” she hums. “I see.”

            He turns and glares at her, hating how knowing she sounds. “Oh do you? You understand everything? You understand what I’m feeling?”

            She tilts her head slightly, watching him before she answers. “Did you have therapy today?”

            “Yes,” he grits out.

            She nods slowly. “And were you in Kirkwall or Kinloch for your discussions?”

            He stares at her for a moment. “Kir-Kirkwall,” he answers haltingly.

            “I see,” she says again.

            He hates that.

            When he thinks about it though, what he really hates is what’s beneath this anger.

            It’s anger at himself. He’s angry because _he wants it_.

            It was like a siren call this morning when he woke up, and all he can think about is how sweet it would be, how blissful he would feel.

            It’s been weeks, almost two months, since he felt this feeling. And it’s like it all came rushing back to him, making up for the lost time of longing.

            He needs to take it again, he _wants_ to take it again. He misses it too much not to.

            _Lyrium_.

            It’s all he wants.

            “Are you experiencing anything else?” she asks, and snaps him out of his reverie.

            He opens his mouth to tell her about his craving, to tell her about his desperate longing. He can’t say it aloud – to do so would be to make it real.

            “Might I ask – is it – do you want – _it_?” she asks, and he wonders how she knows.

            He hangs his head in shame, and he doesn’t even have to nod or say yes before she gives a soft sigh.

            “Well, we can help with that, I’ll be -”

            “What, going to pump me full of more drugs, more potions, treat me like a human test tube?” he snaps.

            “I was going to try to help -”

            He doesn't want to have to need her help. He doesn't want to have to accept it.

            He grabs the tray on the small desk in front of him and throws it against the wall beside her with a frustrated growl.

            She jumps and throws a hand up, erecting a barrier before herself instinctively.

            It sparkles, shimmering like stars. It’s unlike any barrier he’s seen before.

            It’s odd enough it snaps him out of his rage, but it brings on fear as he realizes she’s bracing herself with her magic. He wonders if she’s ready to use it against him.

            She’s standing with her barrier still raised, looking like she’s taking deep breaths as she watches him.

            He immediately feels ashamed, and he buries his face in his hands.

            “Doctor, I’m – I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I just – I thought I was passed this. I thought I was better.”

            His voice is weak, it cracks. He hates it, and how vulnerable it makes him sound.

            He can tell she hesitates for a moment before she lowers her barrier. He hears her heels click on the floor as she takes a few tentative steps toward him. “Moments like these are bound to happen, Cullen,” she says softly. “And I won’t lie to you. The unfortunate thing is, they’ll happen for the rest of your life.”

            He raises his gaze to her face. The look in her eyes is sad, and earnest.

            “What you’ve gone through, what you put your body through,” she sighs a little, but she maintains his gaze to drive home how serious her words are. “You will never fully be free of it. But you can learn to deal with it, you can learn not to lose yourself in those moments.”

            He stares at her and swallows hard. He feels like he has a lump in his throat.

            “I thought I had,” he breathes.

            “You’ve made great progress,” she takes a few more steps and stops before him. “You just need to remember that. You can’t let yourself get discouraged. You can do this. I’ve never had a patient make such incredible progress, especially considering the state you were in when you came in.”

            He feels his eyes fill with tears.

            He doesn’t want to deal with this for the rest of his life. He wants to be free of it.

            “What else can I do?” he asks quietly.

            “For now, I’m going to recommend you take sleeping pills once more,” she answers. “As much as you need to conquer your fears, you can’t do it at the expense of your sanity. In the meantime, we have things to help with the cravings, we have things to help with the pain. But I need you to trust me.”

            She takes another step until she’s standing right before him, peering up into his eyes. She's so close he could reach out and touch her easily, and her nearness affects him deeply. He wishes he knew why.

            “Do you trust me, Cullen?”

            He gulps and looks into her unusual eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever trust again.

            But he looks at the gentle smile on her face and the look in her eyes, and he knows.

            “Yes, I do.”


	6. Treatment Pt. 1

            “Doctor Trevelyan, what you’re suggesting -”

            “What I’m suggesting might work,” she says firmly. “I think it’s worth a chance.”

            “You’ve suggested it before,” Cassandra sighs and shakes her head. “And I stand by what I said then -”

            “I might have been able to save Alrik’s life – others’ lives, if you had let me try this,” Evelyn interrupts. “If I can get the patient’s permission, if they’re agreeable to trying something so experimental – why won’t you let me?”

            “It’s a risk, it could cost the hospital -”

            “Is that what you’re worried about? The risk to the hospital?” Evelyn is incredulous. “What about my patients’ _lives_? If this could work, think of how many we could save -”

            “And think about how many could be put at even more risk if your clinic gets shut down for your methods,” Cassandra points out. “If we get sued, if we get too many patients that it doesn’t work for, you could be shut down. And then you won’t be able to help anyone with anything.”

            Evelyn sighs and puts her hands on her hips, staring at the floor as she thinks. They’ve had this argument too many times, but this time she’s determined to make the other woman see. She’s tired of watching her patients relapse, she’s tired of watching them struggle alone and desperate.

            “I’ve done all the research – it’s sound, Dr. Pentaghast,” Evelyn argues. “I could present a paper to the board, I could get Solas to help me make them understand, to tell them how it could be effective.”

            Cassandra is watching her closely, her lips pursed. She leans back in the chair she’s sitting in, tapping the fingers of one hand on her desk as she thinks.

            “Please, Cassandra,” Evelyn implores her. “Let me at least try. Think about if I’m right – think about how many Templars could be saved. Think about how many could more easily leave the Order.”

            “And if it doesn’t work?”

            Evelyn sighs. “Then I’ll take the fall. But please – I have to try. I have patients whose lives could benefit. I have to do it.”

            “Do you really think he’ll agree?” Cassandra watches her closely. “You know his history.”

            “I think I can convince him,” Evelyn nods. “Or at least, I think it’s worth asking.”

            The other doctor slowly nods. “All right. But only if he agrees, and signs papers.”

            Evelyn’s face breaks into a smile. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

            “Don’t make me regret it,” Cassandra warns her, but she gives her a small smirk. That’s as close to approval as the stern woman gets.

            Evelyn turns to leave the room, mulling over how she’ll ask her patient to agree to such an experimental procedure. She knows that it’s not too dissimilar to treatment for other illnesses, but it’s never been used like this for addiction and withdrawal. And not usually by magic.

            She thinks about those last few moments with Bron, of the clarity she was able to bring him, the peace he felt, right before he passed. She’s never told anyone that, she’s never explained to Cassandra why she knows this will work. She hasn’t been able to tell anyone.

            But she thinks she knows one person she needs to tell.

            She walks through the halls quickly, mulling over how she’ll ask him. He’s already said he trusts her, and she hopes he means it. She needs him to if she’s going to help him through this.

            She reaches his door and knocks softly before she begins to open it.

            “Cullen?” she calls out softly, and she hears him give a noncommittal noise of admittance.

            She opens the door all the way and sees him sitting by the window, wrapped in a blanket and staring out at the courtyard beneath his window.

            “How are you feeling today?” she asks as she approaches him.

            “Like shit,” he answers.

            She can’t help but give a small giggle. He turns a scowl to her, and she gives an apologetic shrug. “Thank you for your honesty,” she tells him, and gives him a sweet smile.

            His golden eyes wander over her face, taking in the look of her smiling at him. Something changes in his face, almost looking like embarrassment or shame. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have – I don’t usually swear. I just feel…”

            She shakes her head. “There’s no need to apologize,” she assures him. “Are you in pain? Or are you still craving?”

            “Both,” he answers, turning back to the window. “And I’m cold. Is my heater broken?”

            She looks around the room, thinking that it feels fine to her. She walks over to the thermostat and checks it, but everything is normal. “Do you feel feverish?” she asks as she walks back to stand beside him.

            “Maybe,” he sighs.

            She holds a hand out tentatively, and he gives a small nod when he notices. His forehead is clammy again against her fingers, and he’s hot to the touch. She can tell he’s been sweating, his curls are damp again. She gently brushes one off his forehead and then immediately removes her hand.

            She clears her throat. “I can get you some meds for your fever, in a few minutes,” she tells him. He gives a slow nod. “In the meantime, I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

            He raises his gaze, and for a moment she simply stares into the amber depths of his eyes. The look in his eyes is curiosity, it’s pain, it’s sadness. But it’s also like it’s pleading, like he’s asking for kindness and understanding, for a bit of relief.

            The look in his eyes always breaks her heart.

            “May I sit down?” she asks, forcing herself to look away from his eyes.

            “Yes, of course,” he murmurs.

            She takes the seat across from him and carefully crosses her legs. “I’ve been working on some research, and some ideas for treatments for you,” she begins. “I believe I may have a way to help you, but I – I feel I should explain a few things, first.”

            He pulls the blanket more tightly about his shoulders and watches her intently.

            “My older brother, Bron, was a Templar,” she says, her voice soft. She sees him raise his eyebrows, thoroughly surprised. “He was in the war, and he – he was caught behind enemy lines in some of the worst fighting outside of Ostwick. He panicked, he was separated from his garrison, and he – he deserted.”

            She pauses for a moment, and she notices him frowning, watching her face even more intently than he was before.

            She takes a deep breath to continue. “He somehow made it home, but he was delirious. He was in shock, he was starving, he – he was in the last stages of withdrawal. He’d been away from his supply of lyrium for too long,” she takes another deep breath. “I was young and I was home for a short break from school, and I’m the one who found him. He was dying.”

            “I’m – I’m so sorry,” he says, his eyes still riveted on her.

            “Thank you,” she acknowledges before she continues. “He was in so much pain, and I – in a moment of desperation, I tried using my magic. But it didn’t come out like healing magic, instead it came out as it normally does. As lightning.”

            She watches as he looks to her eyes suddenly, as if comprehension is dawning on him. She waits a moment before she continues.

            “The strange thing was, it helped,” she gives a small shrug. “He wasn’t in pain, he was suddenly snapped out of his delirium and shock. He was able to have some peace before – before it took him.”

            He frowns a little as he watches her. She brushes at her cheeks, feeling wetness; she hadn’t realized she was crying. He looks around and grabs a tissue from the box beside him and holds it out to her. She takes it with a small smile and wipes her eyes and her nose.

            “I’m sorry,” he says again.

            “It’s all right,” she says softly. “But it’s why I changed my career path – I originally wanted to be an artist. After that – I didn’t want to see anyone else die like that. You asked me once why I would help Templars, even though I’m a mage. I just thought you should know why.”

            He nods, still staring at her intently.

            “I bring it up now because – I have a theory about how I may be able to help you. It won’t be a cure-all, you’ll still likely struggle for the rest of your life,” she explains. “But I can help you get past the worst of it. If you’ll let me, I’d like to treat you with my magic. I think it could help, ah – reboot your mind, let’s say. And it should help you through the worst of the symptoms right now, until you can learn to manage on your own. Like a clean slate, almost, so that you can brace yourself for their return in the future.”

            “Y-you think that would work?” he asks. His eyes are wide, he looks almost scared. “I – I don’t know…”

            “I can give you time to think about it,” she says. “And the hospital will want you to sign forms of consent, since it’s considered experimental. I’ll explain every bit of the treatment before you sign them, as well. But I really think it would help you, Cullen. And I’ll answer any questions you have, at any time.”

            “Do you have a time limit? I – I just…I’ve never had magic used, um – it’s never been used to help me,” he tells her, his voice low and slightly shaky. He still looks like he’s scared.

            “I understand that,” she smiles reassuringly at him. “It’s your decision, in the end. But I hope you’ll give me a chance, Cullen. You trust me, right?”

            He stares at her for a moment, and then nods slowly. “Yes, I do. I – just give me a day. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

            Her face breaks out into a wider smile. “Of course,” she agrees. “In the meantime, let me get you something for your fever.”

            She stands and begins to walk out of the room, but he softly calls her back.

            “Doctor, I – thank you for telling me about your brother,” he says. “I know that must be hard to talk about.”

            “Thank you for listening,” she smiles, and then leaves the room to get him his elfroot and ibuprofen.

            She muses over how well the conversation went, thinking about how he only looked mildly scared, only mildly like he was considering saying no. It gives her hope that he’ll let her help him. She hopes he will. If anyone deserves to feel better, if anyone deserves to overcome their struggles, it’s him.

 

* * *

 

 

            Cullen sits looking out the window, happy that his fever is gone for the moment. The medicine he’s given for that, at least, still works. It’s a small comfort, but a comfort none the less.

            He stares down at the courtyard, lost in thought. He promised her an answer today, but he’s still mulling it over. The thought of letting her use magic on him is terrifying.

            But also oddly tantalizing.

            He spoke about it yesterday with Solas, he asked the advice of Thrask. Both men told him it would be worth a shot to get better if he was willing to try. Solas especially seemed keen to have Cullen try magic as a solution, thinking it would also help him get past that trepidation and anxiety.

            Still though, he’s hesitant.

            Magic has never been beneficial to him. It’s only ever been used on him to control or harm. And even just talking about those things in therapy has been sending him spiraling down further into his despair and withdrawal.

            Then again, this would be a chance to prove to him that magic isn’t always just harmful. That it can heal, and help. That mages can be good people.

            He trusts her.

            He wonders if that’s enough.

            A soft knock on the door interrupts his musings, and he calls for entry.

            “How are you this morning, Cullen?” she asks, smiling softly at him.

            Somehow, that smile makes his anxiety fade. Surely someone who can smile like that, who can speak so softly and take the abuses her patients yell at her with such grace, could never hurt someone. She only heals, she’s only ever tried to help him.

            He reaches his decision.

            “I’m fine,” he answers. “My fever feels like it went away.”

            She continues smiling as she walks forward, and again she hesitantly holds out a hand and waits for permission. He nods and she places her cool fingers on his forehead. He closes his eyes at the contact, enjoying the feeling of being touched.

            Considering how much he’s been poked and prodded these last few months in the clinic, he still craves any sort of simple touch. It’s a nice relief to feel her gentle fingers on him instead of a nurse poking him with a needle to draw blood or give him an I.V.

            “How do you tell – do you use magic to check how I’m feeling?” he asks, still wondering how she always seems to tell so easily.

            She gives a small laugh. “No, no, just years of practice,” she tells him. “I focus on patients who almost always develop a fever – it’s gotten easy to tell, is all.”

            “Oh, I thought maybe you were using magic,” he nods absently. He feels almost sheepish at his admission.

            “I wouldn’t use magic without your permission,” she says. “I understand the things you’ve been through, but I also understand the patients I take care of. I work with Templars, I know better than to use magic without checking first.”

            “I appreciate it,” he admits. “It – it means a lot to me.”

            “Does that mean you’ve given more thought to what I proposed?” she asks, moving to lean against the window ledge like she normally does. She folds her arms and stands looking down at him, waiting patiently.

            “I – what would it feel like?” he asks. He feels silly, but he’s been wondering about that most of all.

            “It’s like a vibration,” she says. “I’ve done it to myself for a headache, and out of curiosity. Have you ever licked a nine-volt battery?”

            He raises his eyebrows at her and gives a small nod. He remembers his brother daring him to do it when he was younger.

            “It’s similar,” she smiles. “Except it would be in your head, not your mouth. It’s not entirely unpleasant.”

            He looks back out the window, thinking. That doesn’t sound horrible, but his mind is still racing, his heart still beating faster as he thinks about it.

            “And you really think it will help?” he turns to look back at her.

            She holds his gaze, the look in her eyes earnest, as if she wants him to know she means it. “Yes, I think it will. I’ve spent years researching this, but – well, the hospital has been unwilling to take the risk. You would be the first I’ve actually treated this way.”

            He sighs, contemplating. “What could go wrong?”

            “It could hurt you, it could fail to help,” she shrugs. “There’s a possibility it could makes things worse, but from the research I’ve done, that’s a very small possibility. Almost a miniscule chance.”

            “But – you don’t think that will happen?”

            “I have faith it won’t,” she smiles.

            He stares into her translucent lightning eyes, finally understanding their unusual color. He thinks for only a moment before he nods his head.

            “Let’s try it.”

 

 

 

 

            He’s signed all of the papers and the hospital has finally approved it. He follows her down the hall, happy that after all these months he’s strong enough to keep up with her quick pace. He thinks it’s funny, how fast she walks. She’s always so intent, with a destination in mind and working to reach it as quickly as she can. It speaks to an inner impatience within her, a desire to keep going and achieving.

            He doesn’t have to work as hard to move as fast, able to take long strides for every two of hers considering their height difference. Today, he’s not as irritated. He’s nervous, but he’s not angry, and the sound of her heels on the linoleum is pleasant instead of grating.

            It’s a peaceful walk, which is interesting because he thought he would be more uneasy. He feels like he has butterflies in his stomach, but he’s not nearly as terrified as he expected. Something about her presence walking next to him is soothing, something about the confident way she’s carrying herself helps with his nerves.

            They’re waiting side by side at the elevator, both looking ahead. He doesn’t feel the need to speak, and she seems lost in her own thoughts. He’s noticed in the last few days a distracted, distant look in her eyes that wasn’t there before. He doesn’t want to ever admit to her that he looked through her texts and overheard her phone call, but he knows she must be hurting.

            From what he can tell, she’s suffering through heartbreak.

            But if he hadn’t seen either of those things, he wasn’t sure he would be able to tell that something was off. She’s keeping up her stoicism, and it’s only because he spends so much time studying her face that he notices the subtle changes. Every once in a while he can smell a stale whiff of tobacco smoke on her as well, which he’d never noticed in all the months before. He wants to ask her about it, but he knows he shouldn’t.

            As they wait for the elevator, he suddenly finds himself wondering who he is, the man who sent her such horrible messages and yelled at her over the phone. Cullen knows that he’s snapped at her before as well, but he’s never intended to harm her. It’s been at his lowest points when he doesn’t feel like he’s in control, like he doesn’t have full awareness of his actions or surroundings. He wonders who in their right mind could want to hurt her on purpose, since she’s so kind and good.

            The elevator doors open and the man Cullen has met a few times before is walking off, distracted and not paying attention to where he’s going. He runs into Cullen even though he tries to step aside, and the black eyes finally rise to take in who he collided with. He scowls and immediately looks to the side to see her standing there.

            “ _Dr_. Trevelyan,” he grits out, and Cullen almost feels like the other man is sneering.

            She tenses up and gives a curt nod.

            Something clicks, and Cullen realizes who the ‘Grayson’ from the texts is.

            The other man looks between the two of them, the scowl blackening on his face as he looks them both over. He looks close to saying something, but instead he pushes his way between them, hitting both of their shoulders as he does.

            Cullen watches him go with a frown, and then looks down to his companion. She has her eyes closed and is taking a deep breath.

            The doors to the elevator are beginning to close and Cullen steps forward to put a hand out to stop the doors. He looks back at her and gestures for her to step on first.

            An interesting look like wonder or gratitude comes on her face, and she hesitates a moment before she nods and gets on the elevator. He follows as she presses the button for the floor they’re going to. He looks sideways at her; he wants to ask, he wants to see if she’s all right.

            She spends so much time taking care of everyone else, he wants to try to do something to return the favor.

            “We’ll be working in an operating room, if that’s all right,” she says. He can tell there’s a strained note in her voice, but she’s trying to hide it. “I hope that doesn’t make you nervous, it’s just a precaution.”

            “No, that’s – that’s fine,” he says, when he really wants to say, ‘are you all right?’

            “Good, I didn’t want you to feel daunted by it,” she gives him a reassuring smile. He can tell how sad her eyes are, but she’s still trying to make him feel better.

            Something about it feels wrong to him.

            They ride the rest of the way in the elevator in silence, and then she leads him to one of the operating theaters. She pushes into the room and he follows. He’s surprised to see Solas already there waiting.

            “Ah, Doctor, excellent,” the elf smiles. “And Cullen, how are you feeling, today?”

            “Fine,” Cullen answers. “Just a little nervous.”

            “Understandable,” his therapist nods.

            “We’re just waiting on Cassandra, she insisted on being here,” his doctor says as she begins to move around the room. She’s collecting a few items, setting them on a tray beside a reclining chair, like at a dentist’s. He’s oddly relieved to see it isn’t an operating table.

            Solas and Dr. Trevelyan are speaking softly to one another, and Cullen can’t help but listen. Anything to help with his nerves.

            “Are you all right, Evelyn?” Solas asks, his voice low. “You look distracted. Are you nervous about the treatment?”

            “Hm? Oh, no, it’s not that,” she murmurs.

            “How have you been since the other night? I’m sure it hasn’t been easy,” Solas muses.

            “You could say that,” she sighs. “But I’m fine. I just saw him, actually. I wish he’d be a bit more mature about this, since we have to see each other around work.”

            “Well, as your friend, I would say his lack of maturity is probably a large reason for your refusal, hm?”

            She chuckles softly. “You make a fair point.”

            “Well, I’d say he doesn’t know what he’s missing, but he probably does since he proposed,” Solas smiles. “You’re better off without him, in my opinion. Something about him always rubbed me the wrong way. Especially for you – he couldn’t understand your worth, not really. Or at least, not without being upset that others could see it, too.”

            “If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re flirting with me Solas,” she teases softly.

            “In your dreams,” the elf deadpans.

            She laughs. “Yes, so you would have me believe.”

            The chuckle together and Cullen wonders at the meaning. It must be an inside joke.

            Evelyn. Her name is Evelyn.

            He wonders at how long it took him to figure it out. He knows still though that he shouldn’t call her that. But he likes knowing – it makes her even more human to him, removing the title and replacing it with a name.

            Evelyn Trevelyan.

            He likes it.

            The door to the room opens and he turns to see one of the doctors who has stopped in to check on him a few times during his months there.

            “Ah, Cassandra,” Solas greets her.

            The new arrival gives him a curt nod and looks at the other two in the room, finally settling her gaze on Cullen.

            “Mr. Rutherford, how are you feeling?” she asks, walking over to stand before him. She peers into his face, looking into his eyes, and picks up his wrist to feel his pulse. Unlike his doctor, she doesn’t ask first. He tries not to chafe at it.

            “I’m fine,” he answers.

            “Hopefully after this, you’ll be better than fine,” she remarks, and then briskly turns away from him. “Dr. Trevelyan, are you ready to proceed?”

            The younger woman nods and takes a seat beside the reclining chair. She looks at him and gestures to the chair. “Cullen, whenever you’re ready to take a seat, we can begin.”

            He takes a deep breath and looks between the three faces all staring at him. He settles his eyes on Evelyn’s face, and feels assured by the soft smile she’s giving him. With one last deep breath, he steps forward and takes his place in the chair.

            She rests her hand on his shoulder for a second, giving it a reassuring squeeze before she leans the chair back. Solas and Cassandra stand nearby, and their hovering presence almost makes him more nervous than his doctor’s, even though she’s the one who will be using magic on him.

            Somehow, knowing that it’s her, he doesn’t feel so nervous.

            She’s already explained the treatment to him in great detail, and he knows what to expect. She’s moving slowly over him, readying everything she needs. She wipes his brow with a cloth, and then follows the action with her hand, pushing one of his stray locks of hair off his forehead. It’s a tender gesture, and his heart speeds up a little in response.

            He’s not sure why, and he chalks it up to his nerves about magic, now that it’s actually about to happen.

            “Cullen,” she says, and her voice is even softer than normal, even more soothing. It’s angelic, and he feels lulled peacefully by it. “Are you ready?”

            As she asks it, her fingers are still lightly stroking his temples to reassure him. He closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being touched.

            “Yes,” he finally answers, his voice barely audible.

            She pats his temples softly, and then he hears her take a steadying breath.

            He hears a buzzing, a crackling, and he can feel the hum of magic in the air. She described it accurately, he thinks. It’s like a nine-volt battery, it’s like a vibration, only a small pinch of pain.

            He shuts his eyes and tries to steady himself with deep breathing as the feeling intensifies. His mind is going white, not black, and for a few moments he can’t concentrate at all.

            He’s not sure how long it lasts before she stops. He opens his eyes, and the first thing he notices is that the light doesn’t hurt his eyes anymore. He feels a clarity, he feels a peace he hasn’t felt in months.

            “I’m going to do it again in a few moments,” she says softly. “But how are you? Are you all right?”

            “Yes,” he breathes. “I’m – I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I’m not hurting.”

            He feels knuckles brush his cheekbone, light as a feather. He wants them to do it again.

            “Wonderful,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice without looking up at her.

            “I’m impressed, Dr. Trevelyan,” he hears the other woman say.

            “This could change everything,” he hears Solas say.

            “Are you ready for another burst, Cullen?” Again her voice is so soft, so serene.

            “Yes, I am,” he says. He feels her fingers brushing his temples lightly again, and he has to suppress a noise in his throat in response.

            Did he just almost moan?

            It’s like now that his skin isn’t prickling, now that he isn’t in pain, he feels even more pleasure at being touched. And her fingertips are so soft. How has he never noticed just how soft they are?

            Again, he feels a vibration, a slight pinching, prickling at his temples, he hears the buzzing, his mind goes white.

            And again when it’s through, he notices more intensely things that have felt suppressed and dampened by the symptoms of his withdrawal.

            Like how she’s leaning over him and he can smell…orange and vanilla? She smells citrusy, like a tart blood orange, and sweet like a vanilla cookie. He’s never been able to smell that before, but now it’s filling all of his senses with her proximity.

            He can feel his fingers better than he has in months. They no longer feel numb like his hands fell asleep from being in an awkward position for too long. His vision doesn’t have a slight blur to it like he’s trying to look through thick glass. He glances up to her face above him, and he notices a few small freckles across her nose. She has a few flecks of aqua and gold near her pupils in the white depths, and he marvels at the glittering effect of the colors.

            He’s never been able to see those before. Trying to see detail like that has hurt his head too much.

            He doesn’t feel cold, or clammy, or feverish. He can focus on things. He isn’t aching.

            He can’t remember the last time he ever felt this way.

            Since before his vigil?

            Since before he was eighteen?

            It’s been too long. He’s been numbed to everything, to each of his senses for far, far too long.

            And now he has them back, and he’s reveling in exploring each and every one of them.

            Somehow through his clarity of mind, though, he wants to explore _her_ through them.

            He shakes his head slightly, trying to figure out the direction his mind is taking. But he hasn’t thought about anyone in so long, and suddenly he wants to. Suddenly he wants touch, he wants taste. He wants to make someone smile and laugh.

            And he realizes that someone may just be her.

            He wants to make her laugh.

            “How are you, Cullen?” she asks softly.

            “You know, I think you finally brought my pain down to a zero,” he tells her, and he replicates the goofy, wide smile of the ‘pain-free’ face from the chart.

            This time, she doesn’t try to hide her laugh or her smile, and she doesn’t snort through her nose trying to disguise her mirth. Instead, she giggles freely.

            And it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.


	7. Treatment Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too many chapters without smut so here - have a little smut <3  
> xx,  
> L

            It’s like spiderwebs have cleared from his mind. It’s like he was stuck underwater and has finally breached the surface and can breathe and see again.

            The ticking of the clock in his room doesn’t feel like a drum being beaten right in his ear.

            The laughter of the nurses in the hallway doesn’t grate on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

            The fluorescent lights aren’t blinding to him anymore, in fact they don’t hurt his eyes at all as he looks around his room.

            He has a burger for dinner, and it’s the best thing he’s eaten in ages. It doesn’t taste like ashes. He goes down to the cafeteria and sneaks some cookies, and they’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

            They’re vanilla, and he can’t help the sudden direction his mind goes as he savors chewing them slowly.

            They taste like she smells.

            And suddenly he wonders if she tastes this sweet as well.

            He tries to chide himself for the wandering nature of his mind, but he can’t help himself. He’s suddenly so happy and able to feel, that he allows himself to indulge in the thought of being with a woman again.

            He wonders if he’d be able to feel things more intensely now that his senses aren’t dulled by the lyrium. He wonders if his previous experiences felt lackluster because the drug was holding him back.

            He wants to feel that, he wants to see what unbridled pleasure feels like.

            He wants to feel warmth again, too, and after he finishes his cookies he decides to take a hot shower. He’s no longer feverish, no longer shivering and clammy. The idea of hot water on his skin is tempting, delicious.

            He turns the water as hot as it will go in the small bathroom in his room and strips out of the soft hoodie and sweats he always wears. He gets under the scalding stream and groans.

            It’s the best thing he’s felt in ages.

            Well, the second best.

            He keeps remembering the feeling of her fingers on his skin, the soft way she caressed his cheeks. He knows she was reassuring him, but he thinks about the action and he feels himself start to harden.

            He’s surprised, and not just because of the subject of his wandering mind, but because it’s been so long since he felt this.

            His withdrawal has been holding everything back, and he hasn’t felt the heavy weight of his hardened cock in months.

            He bites his lip, enjoying the hot water and the long forgotten feeling of an erection. He lowers a hand and takes it in his fingers, simply holding it for a moment and marveling at the sensation. He hadn’t even known how much he missed feeling aroused.

            He can’t resist, and he braces himself with his other hand, letting the hot water pour down the front of him as he leans against the wall and slowly begins to stroke his cock with his hand.

            _Maker_ he’d forgotten – how could he forget something as _wonderful_ as this feeling?

            He shuts his eyes, still just slowly pumping his own length with his lightly calloused hand as he teases himself with a slow, deliberate pace. With his eyes shut, his mind continues his wanderings, and a sudden thought crosses his mind.

            _What if she catches him?_

He smirks to himself a little as he pictures it, as he pictures her accidentally walking in on him with his hand wrapped around his hard cock. But in his mind, she’s not scared off or flustered by the sight.

            Instead, he imagines her unusual eyes gleaming with her own lust, and she shuts the door and strips out of her professional clothes.

            She gets into the shower with him, wrapping one arm around his neck while her other brushes his hand aside. “Let me do that instead,” she purrs, in that soft, angelic voice that makes him want to lose himself in its sweetness.

            She pumps him with her delicate fingers, showing off a firmness and strength that contradicts her petite size. She presses her lips to his in a fierce kiss, until his head swims with heady desire and he feels lost in the sweet citrus vanilla taste of her.

            He lifts her in his arms. He pushes her to the wall and immediately sheaths himself as deep within her as he can, feeling her tight, wet heat around him. She cries out his name, she moans. She loses her graceful composure until she’s begging him like a whore, desperate for him to go harder and faster as he pounds her into the wall.

            She falls apart, screaming his name as she clenches around him, her throbbing sex encouraging his release –

            He groans and bites his lip harder as he shudders, feeling his cock tighten and throb as his hot release falls to the shower floor in thick spurts.

            It goes on forever. He hasn’t had an orgasm in months and he has to fight the urge to cry out her name. He’s worried he’ll be loud enough they’ll hear him in the hall.

            He knows now, the lyrium was holding him back, all this time. He’s never felt so satisfied, he’s never enjoyed himself more, even with a partner.

            Although he thinks part of that has to do with his delicious imaginings of the woman he now knows is the first he’s truly, honestly desired.

            He wants her. He wants to taste her. He wants to hold her down on a bed and explore every inch of her until she’s sobbing under the passion of his attention.

            He’s never felt this, and he’s certainly never felt that powerful of a release from mere fantasy about someone.

            He thinks about how intense it would be if he actually took her.

            The thought makes him weak in the knees.

      

* * *

 

 

            “Evie Evie! I hear congratulations are in order!” she hears a voice call out, and she turns with a smile. Dorian is swaggering toward her, somehow still looking more roguish in his surgeon’s scrubs than anyone else can ever pull off. “A certain little bird told me you successfully stopped lyrium withdrawal symptoms in a patient?”

            “I did,” she giggles as her friend comes to lean against the nurses’ counter beside her. “It may just be temporary, but Dorian – you should have seen his face. It was like – it was like he was waking up from a fog, like he was coming back to himself. It was the most wonderful thing -”

            Her voice chokes and she presses her fingers to her lips. She’s too overcome by emotion to continue, too excited by the idea of what she did.

            “I couldn’t be prouder,” he tells her and teasingly ruffles her hair. “How about dinner? I’ll get the gang together, we’ll go out on the town – do you work tomorrow?”

            “I was going to come in just for a bit to see how long the effects last, and check on a few other patients.”

            “Oh, good, you can sleep in then – come on, night out on the town. You deserve it, you’ve achieved something miraculous today,” her friend encourages her. His eyes are twinkling, and she knows that look. It won’t just be a night on the town, it will be a _Pavus_ night on the town. And those are the stuff of legends.

            “You know what? You’re right. I’ve gone from a shitty week to this – I think a night out sounds perfect,” she smiles and he beams mischievously.

            “Good, because I met someone I think you’d like, and he’s -”

            “No, no, Dorian, I’m not ready,” she protests with a giggle. “No shenanigans like that, promise me! I just want to celebrate with friends, not be set up on one of your awful blind dates.”

            “They’re not awful!” he protests in mock offense. “But all right, I suppose it _was_ recent.”

            “Recent? It wasn’t even a week ago.”

            Her friend gives an exaggerated sigh. “Only that long?”

            “You’re the worst,” she giggles. “Let me know when you decide where we’re going. I guess I’ll need to leave early to redo my hair and change…”

            She trails off and tries to think about her wardrobe and what laundry is clean. She’s fairly certain the dress she’s thinking of is clean –

            Her musings are interrupted by a nearby patient’s door opening and she turns to look.

            Cullen wanders out of his room, and there’s a flushed look to his face, a ruddy health to his skin that she hasn’t seen in all of the time she’s known him.

            He looks up and down the hall for a second and then sees where Evelyn and Dorian are standing. He almost looks like he blushes, but she wonders if maybe he just finally has enough circulation going to bring color into his usually pallid cheeks.

            “Cullen, how are you feeling?” she asks, and he slowly makes his way over to stand before them. “You look really well, you actually have some color in your cheeks.”

            She’s only making an observation, but his cheeks definitely redden deeper once she says that. Maybe he _is_ blushing.

            “Is this him?” Dorian asks, casually pointing a finger at Cullen.

            Evelyn nods, and sees Cullen frown. Dorian does a thorough once over of her patient, and she hopes Cullen only thinks it’s a look of a doctor observing a patient. She knows better, she knows that Dorian was just checking him out.

            “You do look _much_ better,” Dorian says, but he has no frame of reference to how Cullen looked before the treatment. Evelyn thinks he’s implying something, and she frowns.

            “Thank you,” Cullen says but he frowns. He turns to look at Evelyn and he almost seems shy. “Can we play chess tomorrow? I – I feel like maybe I could focus better, and I want to see if I can do better.”

            Her eyebrows raise. “Your mind seems clearer?” She asks, and he nods. “Yes, we could do that. I won’t be in all day, but I’ll be in in the afternoon if that works for you.”

            “That’s perfect,” he smiles brightly, and she realizes it’s the most genuine smile she’s seen from him.

            “So you’re still feeling well?”

            “I – I feel amazing,” he assures her. “I haven’t felt this way in almost fifteen years. I – thank you, Doctor.”

            She beams at him. “Of course.”

            A beeping sounds suddenly and Dorian groans and looks down at the small black pager on his belt. “I’ve got to run,” he says. “Evie, doll, I’ll text you, and I’ll make sure everyone knows to come out. We are not letting you go without celebrating your victory.”

            Before he runs off he gives her a kiss on the cheek and smiles at Cullen, and then he rushes down the hall.

            “What are you celebrating?” Cullen asks, and she sees a slight frown on his face.

            “Oh, my successful treatment,” she says hesitantly. She’s almost embarrassed to admit it to him – she’s essentially celebrating him, and she feels guilty. He has to stay here at the hospital while she can go out with friends. She almost wishes she could invite him out so that he could enjoy himself as well.

            “Oh,” he chuckles. “Can I buy you a drink? I have a few sovereigns, I can’t go with you, but I could give you -”

            She shakes her head and giggles. “No, no, you don’t need to buy me a drink. I was more than happy to help. I just – almost all of my friends work here as well, they know how important this achievement is. And I’ve had a hard week so I know they’re looking for any excuse to cheer me up.”

            She doesn’t know why she admitted it. She shouldn’t have. Her own issues have nothing to do with him; she shouldn’t have told him.

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” he frowns a little. “Is there – I mean, what’s, um, what’s the matter?”

            “Oh, just – something personal,” she answers quickly. She shouldn’t talk about this with him.

            Especially not when she suddenly remembers the way she had been picturing him while in bed with her ex for so many weeks. She’s been trying to distance herself, and she’s still regretting the soft caresses she allowed herself when she was trying to reassure him during his treatment.

            He nods but almost looks a little sad, and curious – like he still wants to keep asking.

            “So, do you still have any symptoms?” she asks as a way to change the subject and refocus her mind.

            “No, I feel – I feel wonderful,” he answers eagerly. “In fact, I was going to head to the gym, see what I can accomplish. I feel like maybe I won’t struggle so much.”

            “That’s great,” she agrees. “Well, just remember to still listen to your body and drink water, but otherwise I think that’s the perfect idea.”

            He nods for a moment, looking at her intently. Finally he clears his throat. “Well, have – ah, have fun tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon for chess?”

            She smiles and softly confirms, and he beams at her once more.

            It’s odd to see him smile so much after so long, but it’s also refreshing.

            It sends a thrill through her, and she takes a steadying breath and gives a jerky nod of her head and hurries away.

            She can’t.

            She needs to get herself under control.

            Maybe Dorian’s right, maybe she needs a distraction.

 

 

 

 

            “What?” she asks loudly, trying to hear over the music.

            Dorian had said a night out, and she had known he meant it. But now, she almost wishes they had just stuck to the fancy dinner they had started the night out with.

            Their large group is sitting in a plush booth of a VIP section, bottles of alcohol and mixer spread out on the table before them. Dorian always goes overboard with bottle service, and he only orders the best. Several other patrons of the club are looking longingly at their private setup, wishing they weren’t stuck in the middle of the crowded, sticky dance floor. But the large Qunari bouncer is blocking the velvet rope entrance to their area and no one dares get any closer.

            “I said I think that guy’s checking you out,” Marian says louder and slower than before, and she covertly points to someone at the bar. Evelyn follows her finger and sees a tanned, blond elf shooting her glances. His long hair is pulled back into a bun, and so far he’s one of the best dressed guys there, in interesting contrast to his face tattoos.

            “You think so?” Evelyn asks her friend.

            Marian giggles drunkenly. She hasn’t had much to drink, but then again she and Fenris haven’t been out together much since their twins were born. She leans on Evelyn, her golden curls rubbing against Evelyn’s cheek. “Most. _Definitely_ ,” she emphasizes pointedly. “Trust me, I know dashing elves – he _wants_ you.”

            Beside her Fenris scoffs. “You don’t know _everything_ about elves, Marian,” he drawls, but he smirks. He reaches over and teasingly fondles her cheek, and Evelyn pulls away since Marian is still leaning against her.

            “Ugh, mom, dad, get away from me when you do that,” she mocks. She glances again at the blond elf at the bar, and sure enough now she can tell – he’s looking over his shoulder at her and when she catches his eye, he winks.

            She thinks for a moment, trying to decide. It hasn’t been long since Grayson, but she almost wants to erase him from her body. She doesn’t want him to be the last person who was kissing her, who was touching her, who was inside her. Not after how things ended.

            But another image pushes into her mind, of a scarred lip tugging up in a smile, of happiness twinkling in golden amber eyes as they bore into hers.

            The smiles on his face that day won’t leave her.

            She shakes herself and looks away, trying to forget the images. She can’t think about that.

            That’s almost more reason to go talk to the man checking her out – maybe he can help push that image out of her head as well.

            She looks over her group of friends. Sera is busy setting up an elaborate prank on their bouncer. Varric is telling a riveted Cassandra a story, and Evelyn is still amazed the woman agreed to come out with them. Dorian and Iron Bull are positively canoodling, stealing the occasional kiss and squeezing one another under the table. Marian and Fenris are now kissing deeply beside her, and she scoots away from them, not wishing to be a part of that. She’s happy they have some time away finally, but sometimes they’re so intense she can’t handle it.

            Mostly because it makes her jealous. Marian has the intense passion she craves, that she wishes she can find. She knows that for a fact as she watches Fenris twist his hand into his wife’s thick golden hair as he hungrily slants his mouth against hers.

            She chuckles and slides out of the booth.

            Why not? Is all she can think.

            She squeezes past the Qunari bouncer and he gives her a nod. She maneuvers her way through the dance floor to the bar, and when she emerges from the crowd beside the elf she heaves a deep, exaggerated sigh.

            “Woo, that was harder than I thought,” she giggles breathlessly and falls into the stool beside him.

            He grins at her and looks her up and down. “Getting tired of bottle service?” he asks, and she notices his accent is Antivan.

            She glances over her shoulder at her friends. “No, I’m simply feeling a bit left out,” she admits, but she bats her eyelashes suggestively.

            He looks behind him and sees what she means. Half of her group of friends is in the middle of kissing and giggling with their partners.

            “How is it a beautiful woman like you isn’t here with someone?” he asks, and his voice is almost a purr.

            She shrugs. “I’m recently single,” she says, and she immediately regrets her honesty. She should have said something else.

            “I hope you left him,” he smirks. “Surely no one could leave someone as stunning as you.”

            She smiles. “You think so?”

            “Absolutely,” he says and he takes a sip from his drink. “Let me buy you a drink and I can tell you just how stunning you really are.”

            “All right,” she agrees, and his eyes light up as he flags down the bartender.

            The elf is absolutely fascinating, and while she loves talking with him, and she loves flirting with him, a face keeps popping into her head no matter how hard she tries to fight it.

            Several times during their conversation she has to mentally stop and remind herself.

            He’s off limits.

            But this man in front of her is interested, and here, and certainly not off-limits.

            When he suggests stepping out for fresh air, she agrees.

            When he pushes her against the wall outside and kisses her, she kisses him back with enthusiasm.

            Still, though, she can only see golden eyes and a crooked, scarred grin when she closes her eyes and feels him pressed up against her.

            After what feels like an eternity of drunken, sloppy kissing against the wall, the man pulls away and stares at her. He has an interesting look in his eyes.

            “What’s his name?” he asks, his tone curious but not accusatory.

            “I’m sorry?” she asks, frowning and thoroughly confused.

            “The man it’s clear you would rather be kissing,” he tells her. “What’s his name?”

            It’s the alcohol that makes her do it.

            “Cullen,” she breathes.

            “And this Cullen – is he the one you left recently?”

            “No,” she sighs. “He’s – he’s someone I can’t have.”

            “And why is that?”

            “He’s – let’s just say it would be wrong. It would be unethical.”

            The elf regards her carefully, his lips pursed slightly as he thinks about it. “But still, you want him?”  
            “I – yes, I do,” she confesses. She has no idea what’s making her do it. It has to be a combination of the alcohol and the fact that he’s a total stranger.

            “Well, ethics are an interesting thing,” the elf responds after a moment. “They’re always open to interpretation. What’s really stopping you?”

            She stares at him, unsure of what to say. “He’s – he’s – no, I couldn’t,” she stutters.

            “You sound scared,” he muses. He’s still got her pressed against the wall, but the way he’s stroking her sides feels comforting, friendly. It’s clear he still wants her, but he also seems like he’s interested in helping her figure out her desires. “Is it because you just left someone? Or are you scared of going after what you want?”

            She giggles despite herself. “Are you always like this? Trying to peer into everyone’s souls, determine their deepest fears?”

            “Only if they’re beautiful,” he purrs. “I’ll say this – if you want, you can take me home with you.”

            He leans forward and tugs her bottom lip between his teeth.

            “I won’t even complain if you’re thinking about him the whole time, or if you call me by his name,” he continues. “But if you’d like, I can also see you back inside to your friends, and I will always fondly remember the time we spent out here kissing with such drunken abandon. What say you?”

            She only thinks for a moment before she knows what she wants.

            “I’d like to go back inside,” she says.

            The man smiles at her and steps back, holding his arm out to her gallantly to escort her back inside to her friends.

 

* * *

 

 

            Time has gone by even quicker now that he doesn’t feel like he’s in such a daze. He occupies his time and actually enjoys it, trying to better himself because he wants to and not just as a distraction.

            Cullen finally feels like himself.

            But he’s also confused, because his whole adult life he’s been under this influence, and a part of him isn’t fully sure who he actually is.

            He discusses this with Solas. He talks about it with Thrask.

            He even brings it up with _her_ , and his heart races a bit when she smiles and says, “Now you can be whoever you want to be.”

            It’s a better answer than he hoped for.

            Tomorrow he’s being released.

            He’s been here for ten months. This clinic is all he’s known for almost a year.

            He’s scared to be leaving, but he’s also excited.

            Because she’s right – he has all of Thedas open to him. He can go be whoever he wants to be.

            When he leaves tomorrow he’s heading to South Reach. He’s written Mia and arranged a visit. He’s going to meet Branson’s son, he’s going to see his siblings again for the first time in over a decade.

            He’s more excited than he thought he would be.

            And just the fact that he’s excited is new and wonderful to him.

            He’s had several of her treatments, now, spread out to help him adjust in between. His therapy has finally been helping. He’s learning to cope between treatments.

            Dr. Trevelyan has arranged for him to come in once a month for a check up. He’s still going to be attending group sessions, once he’s back from South Reach. He and Thrask are staying in touch, and he has a few leads on places to live.

            He’s not entirely sure what work he’ll do, yet, but he has money stashed away to give him time to decide.

            Things are finally going well.

            But for some reason, he feels a melancholy he can’t shake. He walks through the hall and he sees her, and his heart races a bit. And he figures out why he’s sad.

            He won’t see her as frequently, he won’t be able to play chess with her, or try to make her laugh. He’s spent the last few weeks awkwardly trying to make her laugh, trying to elicit that heavenly laughter from her lips.

            Even though he feels like he’s bumbling, he’s somehow always managed to at least make her smile. But now, he’s about to leave that.

            “Hello, Cullen,” she greets him when she looks up and sees him walking nearby.

            “Hello,” he answers.

            “Are you excited for tomorrow?” she asks. Her smile is soft, but it’s not as wide as it normally is.

            “Yes, I suppose,” he answers too honestly. “I mean, I’m – I’m nervous to be out on my own. I’m nervous to see my family again.”

            He says that, but he means, _I’m nervous to be away from you._

            He’s not even entirely sure when this switch in his thoughts happened. He knows he wasn’t fully aware until after the physical symptoms of his withdrawal disappeared. But he’s fairly certain, he’s almost positive, that he’s always thought of her this way.

            _Maker_ he wants her.

            But he knows it’s likely to never be.

            And that makes leaving the clinic, leaving her constant supervision and presence, that much harder.

            He should feel ashamed for how frequently he’s been touching himself while he thinks about her. He should feel ashamed for how many dreams he’s awoken from hard and moaning in response to what he was dreaming about doing to her.

            He doesn’t though. Instead he just feels sadness that he’s leaving her soon.

            He wants to continue on with his life, but a part of him doesn’t fully understand why that life can’t also include her.

            “That’s to be expected,” she says, and she pulls him out of his thoughts. He almost doesn’t remember what she’s responding to. “You’ll be fine, though. You’ve made so much improvement. I’ve never been prouder of a patient.”

            He smiles, her words echoing in his mind.

            She’s proud of him.

            Somehow that bolsters his spirits.

            He spends the evening reading in his room, and he packs up his meager possessions so he can leave the next day. He tosses and turns some, and when he sleeps he dreams of her, he dreams of her beneath him moaning his name while he touches her, while he runs his tongue along her, while he takes her.

            He wakes up hard in the morning, and he groans and reaches down with a hand to seek out his relief. He pictures her full lips, he pictures them around his hard cock, and he thinks about the sweet way she smells. He thinks about her soft fingers on his temples, stroking his cheekbones.

            “ _Evelyn_ ,” he moans, using her first name even though he’s never called her by it in person. He spills his spend on his stomach, and pants heavily as he finishes. “Maker’s breath…”

            He sighs and cleans himself off awkwardly. He swings his legs off the bed and takes a moment before he makes his way to the shower.

            All of his movements are slow, like he’s dreading the day. And in a way, he is.

            He showers, he gets dressed in clothes that he had before, the first time he’s wearing clothes that aren’t provided by the hospital in ten months. He paces his room, checking that he has everything.

            His heart is racing slightly, his hands shaking a little.

            This is it, he’s heading out on his own.

            After breakfast, there’s a soft knock on his door and Evelyn pokes her head in.

            “Hello,” she says, and he nods for her to enter the room.

            She walks in briskly and smiles brightly at him. “How are you today?”

            “N-nervous, I’ll admit,” he confesses.

            “Understandable,” she smiles. “And that’s to be expected. Physically, how are you feeling?”

            “Perfectly normal,” he returns her smile. “I’ve – I haven’t felt this wonderful since before my vigil.”

            “I’m happy to hear that,” she looks down at his chart. “I just need to do a final exam, and then we can start getting you out of here.”

            He watches her the whole time she’s examining him, his eyes never leaving her face. Her fingers move slowly over his skin, she holds his wrist lightly while she’s taking his pulse. He stares into her eyes while she checks his pupils.

            He worries this is the last time they’ll be this close.

            He almost wishes he’d recognized this longing sooner. Even though he knows he couldn’t have done anything about it, he still wishes he had had more time to stare at her, to admire her as she cared for him.

            “You’re doing remarkably well,” she says with a smile. “I’m not sure I’ve ever discharged a patient in as good of health as you’re currently in.”

            “Does that mean you need to keep me so you don’t lose your star patient?” he teases lightly.

            She smiles, but he notices an almost trembling quality to her lips. “No, I’m happy to see you heading out into the world again. You – you deserve to enjoy your life.”

            He can’t think of a response to that.

            She finishes his exam in silence, and still he spends his whole time watching her face.

            When she’s done he watches as she gathers her papers and prepares to leave the room.

            “I’m going to fill out your discharge papers, and then we’ll get you out of here,” she says.

            He watches her leave the room, and his heart drops into his stomach as he watches her close the door behind her.

            A few minutes pass and turn into an hour, and he paces his room and looks out his window. She finally comes rushing into the room with an apologetic smile.

            “Sorry, paperwork, you know how it is,” she giggles. “But – you’re all set, Cullen.”

            She stops before him with a hesitant look on her face.

            “You can go home.”

            The words wash over him, and he feels excitement.

            He can be who he wants to be.

            But then he takes in the look in her eyes, and he feels his heart clench in his chest.

            “I’ll walk you out, do you have a ride?” she asks, and she gestures at the door.

            He picks up his bag and follows her automatically, not thinking about how slow they’re both walking, how much he doesn’t want to go.

            They wait at the elevator together silently, and he shoots her sidelong glances when he thinks she isn’t looking. She catches his eye once and merely smiles, not disturbed that she caught him looking at her so furtively.

            They get onto the elevator and ride it down in similar silence.

            He wants to say something, but he can’t think of what.

            She walks him through the lobby, past the gift shop, and out the front doors.

            He sees the taxi he’s ordered and flags them down, setting his bag down beside his feet. He turns to face her and stares at her for a moment.

            “Take care, Cullen,” she says softly, and she almost looks like her eyes are sparkling with tears.

            He continues to stare at her for a moment before he smiles and impulsively pulls her into a hug.

            “Thank you, Evelyn, for everything,” he whispers against her hair. She hesitates for a moment before she wraps her arms around his waist.

            “You’re welcome,” she murmurs, and he notices her voice is trembling as she says it.

            He tightens his arms around her, positively crushing her to him. He can’t help but revel in the feeling of her soft figure pressed against him. He closes his eyes as he enjoys the scent drifting off her hair.

            Orange and vanilla, and he wonders again if she tastes like it too.

            He clears his throat and steps away from her.

            “I’ll see you around,” he says, trying to hide the way that he clung to her so tightly.

            “Yes, you will,” she giggles a little. “Have fun with your family. Safe travels, Cullen.”

            He nods jerkily to her and then opens the door to the taxi behind him before he throws his bag into the backseat.

            He looks at her one last time before he nods and slides into the car, sure that if he stays even a moment longer he’ll lose his will to leave.

            The taxi begins to take off, and he looks out the back window to see her watching him go, her arms folded against her chest.

            He almost thinks he sees the sparkle of a tear running down her cheek.


	8. The Clinic Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ms_Saboteur, because occasionally I know how to be nice. <3
> 
> xx,  
> L

            “Dorian, you can’t possibly be serious!” she cries, laughing as the small kitten’s claws dig into her sleeve. “I couldn’t possibly – I will _not_ become a crazy cat lady! Just because I’m over thirty and it’s been six months since I turned down a marriage proposal -”

            “That’s not why!” Her friend protests, trying to talk through his laughter at her struggles with the kitten latching onto her arm. “I just think you need some company.”

            “Dorian, I’m _fine_ ,” she grits out.

            She hates how her friends have started treating her like a lonely old spinster.

            She hates how they all act like work can’t possibly be fulfilling for her.

            Sera keeps slipping her sex toys and naughty DVDs. Dorian keeps trying to set her up with random men that he’s met. Iron Bull keeps asking her how often she masturbates. Varric even slipped her a few books from _Swords and Shields_. Only Marian and Fenris seem to understand that she's doing fine and haven't sprung anything on her.

            She loves all of her friends.

            But right now she also hates them.

            And now Dorian is trying to get her to buy a cat.

            “Dorian, you’re all so determined to make me a stereotype,” she bemoans. “Can’t I just enjoy work and being by myself? My house is actually _clean_ for once. And I have fingers, so…”

            “But when was the last time someone _took_ you? When was the last time you were _properly_ fucked, dove?” her friend raises his eyebrows suggestively, like he already knows the answer. When she doesn’t respond right away he says, “Was it that elf six month ago at the club?”

            “What? No, he just made sure I got home,” she shakes her head, still struggling with the needy kitten she’s holding. “He kissed me outside the club and we made out some in his car, but no – we didn’t have sex.”

            “How disappointing,” her friend sighs. “You need to work on your ability to be casual.”

            “No, thank you,” she laughs. “Remember when I thought that would be all Grayson was? I’m not sure I can do casual and I’m not sure I should try. It only ends in absolute disaster.”

            “You at least need to find some sort of release, dove, you seem pretty wound tight -”

            “I’m fine,” she insists. But she knows she isn’t.

            She’s nearly feeling desperate with need.

            But it’s moved beyond a general need, the kind of need that made her consider taking that man – Zevran, he finally told her – home with her. She wants someone specific.

            Zevran had been able to tell her indecision, too, and had offered her his number. Sometimes she dialed it into her phone but she never actually hit ‘call’ or ‘send’ on any messages. She couldn’t bring herself to.

            He told her he still wouldn’t care if she called him another name while he was inside her.

            But she knows it’s still a bad idea.

            For the first few months, Cullen came in every two weeks for treatments when he got back from visiting his family.

            After that, it was once a month.

            And now, it’s only if he needs to.

            He comes in for group therapy once a week, but she rarely sees him in passing.

            Every time she does, she wants to drop everything and speak to him.

            She notices a hesitant eagerness in the way he talks to her, and it confuses but encourages her. It shouldn’t, though. She should never feel encouraged by him. It’s far too wrong.

            Yet every time she sees him he stops her and wants to chat.

            He’s doing well for himself. He’s got a place he’s living, and he tells her he’s taking care of a lemon tree. She’d laugh at him if it weren’t so perfect. He needs to start with something simple, and the care he’s putting into his lemon tree sounds like plenty of responsibility at the moment.

            She’s caught him a few times hanging out in the lobby after his group therapy sessions, like he’s hanging out and waiting for someone. And then when she speaks to him, he acts like he needs to be leaving.

            Like he was hanging around waiting for her and is trying to pass it off that he wasn’t.

            She’s so distracted trying to deny her need to Dorian, that somehow she ends up taking home a kitten.

            He makes sure she gets everything she needs, he fills out the adoption papers for her, and he drives her home and sets up her house with the litter box and cat playpen and bed.

            “You’re such an ass, Dorian,” she says, knowing that deep down he’s laughing that he’s turning her into a cat lady.

            That night she spends trying to adjust to owning a pet, but when the kitten curls up and falls asleep on her chest, she forgives the scratches running up and down her arms.

            The next day at work she’s distracted worrying that her kitten is all right, and she doesn’t notice the person who walks up to speak to her until they start sneezing.

            And sneezing.

            And sneezing.

            She turns to look at the person whose deep sneezes are echoing through the hall, and she raises her eyebrows in surprise.

            “Cullen? Are you – are you all right?” she asks, and she tries not to laugh at the way he can’t stop sneezing.

            “Is – is there – a – a cat?” he asks between his sneezes.

            She starts laughing despite herself. “Oh no, are you allergic? Here, let me get you something,” she runs around the nurses’ station looking for allergy meds. She stops before him, hesitating to hold them out. She’s not fully his doctor anymore, and she suddenly questions giving him medicine.

            But he holds out his hand insistently, still sneezing, and she hands him the pills and her cup of coffee to wash them down.

            After a moment he finally stops sneezing, and she’s still giggling at him.

            “Is there a cat here?” he asks, looking around confused, his eyes red and watering from how much he was sneezing.

            “No, but it’s probably my clothes – I got a cat yesterday and it was all over me this morning before I left for work,” she explains.

            He’s looking at her strangely. “You got a cat?”

            She frowns, confused by his odd regard. “Yeah, I got a kitten.”

            “That’s – hm, I always thought you seemed like more of a dog person,” he muses.

            “I am, actually,” she shrugs. He’s still got a funny look in his eyes. “My friend insisted I do it though, and the little bugger’s cute, so…”

            “The friend or the cat?”

            “The cat,” she giggles. “I haven’t decided on a name yet, though, I -”

            “Do you have a picture? Maybe I can help,” he gives her a crooked grin, and her stomach feels full of fluttering wings.

            She stumbles over her words and fumbles with her phone, trying to pull out a picture. She hesitates when she realizes the picture she has of the kitten is of it curled up on her chest – and she was only wearing a thin white tank top without a bra.

            “Um, I -” she says, but he’s taking her phone from her to look at it.

            If she’s not wrong, he blushes a little. He clears his throat and then deadpans, “Bob.”

            “What? I can’t name my kitten ‘Bob,’” she scoffs, but they laugh together.

            He shrugs. “I think it works.”

            She shakes her head and takes her phone back from him. “So, before you started sneezing and helping me name my cat, did you need something?”

            “Well, I was here for group, but I – I was wondering if you had some time,” he begins.

            “Are you feeling all right? Do you need to schedule a treatment?” she asks quickly, but he shakes his head.

            “No, actually I’m still doing wonderfully, physically. Some nightmares, but nothing I can’t endure,” he smiles. “No, I was wondering, do you have time for lunch today? Or maybe tomorrow?”

            “Lunch?” she frowns. It sounds like an innocent request, but she doubts it’s a good idea. And the smile on his face doesn’t help with that notion.

            “Yes, I – I know you’re busy, but I had something I wanted to speak with you about,” he explains eagerly.

            “Well, I don’t have time to go anywhere,” she says slowly, thinking of an easy solution. “But we could have lunch in the cafeteria?”

            He pauses for only a moment before he nods. “That works. Do you have time now, or -”

            “Yes, now works,” she agrees. “I was going to head to lunch soon anyway. Let me just pass something on to one of the nurses and then we can head down there.”

            She had almost forgotten how peaceful walking next to him was, and how their silent elevator rides were always so soothing. They make their way down to the cafeteria and get in line, and she finally begins asking him about how he’s feeling.

            He answers and tells her he’s still doing well, but she notices a distance in his answers suddenly.

            “Are you all right, Cullen?” she asks.

            “I’m fine, I just – I didn’t come here to get a free examination, you don’t need to ask me how I’m feeling,” he answers honestly.

            She giggles. “Sorry, force of habit,” she says.

            He smiles softly. “It’s all right, I don’t mind, at least – not really. I just don’t want you to have to focus on work for the moment.”

            She raises an eyebrow at him and distracts herself by putting together her usual salad. He watches her for a moment and then chuckles before he walks off and goes to get a burger.

            When they meet back up to pay, she notices he also has two large cookies on his tray. After he pays for his, he slips one of the cookies onto her tray before they go to grab a table.

            “Still bribing me with sweets?” she teases.

            “Yes, I need you in a good mood, so I figured bribery was the best route,” he grins at her, and she has to clear her throat and look away from him.

            “Why do you need me in a good mood?”

            “I have something I need your advice on, something I wanted to discuss with you,” he begins.

            She slowly chews her salad, her mind racing. She pictures scenarios where he says he likes someone and wants her advice, and at first she pictures him meaning her. Then she realizes it’s more likely he’d mean someone else.

            She shakes herself. How old is she? That’s ridiculous, they’re not teenagers. She tries to refocus.

            “What can I help with?” she offers, trying to hide the odd tremor in her voice.

            “Well, I’ve been thinking about what I want to do, now that I have so many options available to me,” he muses. “And I wanted your opinion and your expertise.”

            She smiles and gestures for him to continue. This is definitely a far more interesting route for the conversation to take, and she finds herself eagerly leaning forward to listen as she munches on her salad.

            He takes in her enthusiasm and seems to become more confident. “I – I want to help people,” he starts. “I want to try to help people who want to try to accomplish what I’ve managed to. I want to provide a space for them to find out how to do it.”

            Evelyn’s eyes widen and she lowers the fork she was raising to her mouth. “I – Cullen, I think that’s a _wonderful_ idea.”

            He positively beams when he hears her answer. “You do?”

            “Yes, I really do,” she assures him. “In fact, that’s something I’ve wished I could do here. But the hospital won’t give me the resources to add that to my clinic, they just let me help those already suffering from withdrawal or lyrium sickness.”

            “So there’s a need for this?” he asks, and he frowns thoughtfully. “I wanted to ask you because I wasn’t sure if it already existed or if I’d need to start it.”

            She sighs. “Unfortunately, there isn’t anything already established. The Chantry has stopped most attempts to set up a clinic to help Templars learn how to deal with lyrium. They don’t want to lose that element of control.”

            Cullen grimaces and nods. “That I know,” he agrees almost bitterly. “When I was looking for help before I decided to quit, I noticed a distinct lack of resources for people like me.”

            “Yes,” she says. “But Cullen, if this is something you want to do, I think it would be wonderful.”

            He’s smiling again, and she feels her cheeks flush from the way he’s looking at her.

            “I suppose then, I – ah, I need advice on how exactly I could find the resources to set it up. I have a little money, but -”

            “I’ll help you,” she interrupts almost too keenly. “Cullen, I’ve wanted to do this for years but I haven’t had the time or anyone to help me.”

            “I’d appreciate the help, since I’m not sure I can do it alone. But I could find a way to take donations, and -”

            “Don’t worry about the money, I can help with that too,” she hurries to assure him.

            “No, Evelyn, I couldn’t take -”

            “Please, I insist,” she says, and on impulse she reaches across the table to grab his hand where it’s resting. “I’ve wanted to do something like this for years, and I have the money to get it started. If you’ll let me, I’d love to help you.”

            He stares down at her hand in his, and then slowly raises his gaze to meet hers. He opens his mouth to say something, but another voice interrupts from behind them.

            “Oh you’ve got to be fucking kid – can’t you go somewhere else to do that, or did you do it here on purpose?”

            Evelyn releases Cullen’s hand and turns around, confused. Grayson is standing next to a nearby table, and the glare on his face as he looks between the two of them makes her blood run cold.

            “I’m sorry?” Cullen says, and she notices a deep, biting edge in his voice.

            “Please, _Dr. Trevelyan_ , if you’re going to be fucking your patients can’t you at least do it where I’m not trying to eat?”

            Evelyn heaves a deep sigh, thoroughly irritated. “Grayson, that’s not -”

            “You shouldn’t throw around accusations you can’t back up,” Cullen interjects, his voice still firm.

            Grayson glares at the other man, a sneer coming across his face. “Oh please, like you’re not trying to _thank_ her for everything she’s done.”

            The implication and suggestion are heavy in his tone, and Evelyn scoots her chair back, intending to stand and try to get Grayson to speak with her somewhere private. Before she can stand, she hears a loud scraping noise and Cullen is out of his chair and stepping toward the other man.

            He towers over him, and she can see Grayson cower slightly as he takes in the large former Templar approaching him.

            “Are you implying something? It’s hard to tell, maybe you should just be a man and say what you mean,” Cullen grits out.

            Evelyn stands quickly and tries to get between the two. “Cullen, really, it’s fine, let’s go to my office -”

            “Yes, go to her office, that’s where her sofa is,” Grayson jeers. “You’d be far more comfortable _thanking_ her there.”

            It happens before Evelyn can do anything to stop it, before she can react and even throw a barrier between them.

            Cullen slams his fist into Grayson’s nose, and she’s positive she can hear the _crack_ as soon as it makes contact.

            _“Cullen!”_

            She presses her hands to his chest and tries to push him back. After a moment he lets her, but he’s still breathing heavily and staring at the man he just hit. Grayson is bent in half, his hands holding his bleeding nose as he yelps and shouts curses in his pain.

            Every head in the cafeteria is turned to the scene taking place. Everything is silent except for Grayson’s curses as one of the nurses nearby tries to take a look at his broken nose.

            Evelyn swallows hard, seeing all of the faces staring at them, and then she grabs Cullen by the hand and hurries him from the cafeteria.

            She doesn’t bother waiting for the elevator and pulls him into the staircase instead, running up a few flights before she slows and releases his hand. They turn to face each other, his face still in a deep scowl and hers full of concern.

            “Is your hand all right?” she reaches out for the hand he used to punch her ex, and he flinches when she takes it in hers. “I think you fractured something. I – I can heal it for you, if you let me.”

            He hesitates only a second before he nods his consent. She holds it in hers and channels her healing magic, a soft green glow emanating around their hands. She gently strokes his knuckles before she remembers herself and releases his hand again.

            He’s staring at her, and she can’t decipher the look in his eyes. It’s like a mixture of embarrassment and fury. She’s glad she got him away from Grayson, otherwise she worries he would have continued to hit the other man.

            “What – what happened between you two?” he finally asks, his voice low.

            She sighs and steps away from him to pace on the landing they’re stopped on. “I – I didn’t want to marry him,” she says. “The ironic thing is that since I turned down his proposal, he’s acted even worse and just proven me right for why I said no.” She lets out a humorless laugh.

            “He asked you to marry him?” Cullen’s eyebrows are raised, like he can’t believe it.

            “Yes, about six months ago,” she rubs her forehead and then suddenly digs in her coat pocket. She finds the pack of cigarettes she’s looking for and pulls one and her lighter out.

            “Evelyn, you shouldn’t smoke,” he says softly.

            She raises an eyebrow at him, stopping as she’s poised to light the cigarette. “You shouldn’t tell me what to do.”

            He stares at her for a moment and then reaches over and takes the cigarette out of her mouth. Before she can stop him he snaps it and throws it over the railing.

            “What the hell -” she begins, glaring at him. “I only smoke occasionally, it’s not like it’s a habit.”

            “Well clearly it’s enough of one that you use it to cope,” he says, and he’s looking at her interestingly. It’s like a challenge.

            Just to see what he’ll do, she starts to remove another from the pack in her hand. He reaches for it faster than she expects and grabs the whole pack out of her hand.

            “Are you serious?” she asks, shocked at his nerve.

            “Yes. Hasn't anyone ever told you it's bad for you?" he smirks.

            She wishes she could wipe the smirk off his face, and she suddenly finds herself fighting the desire to reach up and kiss him.

            Shit.

            She shouldn’t be thinking like that.

            “You’re a doctor who works with addiction, you should know better,” he teasingly scolds her.

            “Fine, have it your way,” she concedes, because she’s starting to think she needs to get out of this stairwell as quickly as she can.

            “So does he – does your ex always accuse you of sleeping with your patients?” he asks suddenly.

            “He just always thought my patients spent too much time with me,” she sighs and shakes her head. “He never really seemed to like you, though.”

            To her surprise, Cullen chuckles. “I hadn’t noticed.”

            She giggles and shakes her head. “Well, we should – we can go to my office and continue our discussion. I still want to help you with your clinic, if you’ll let me.”

            He smiles broadly at her. “Yes, I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The last month has flown by, and Cullen feels like he’s hardly slept at all. But for once, it’s a good lack of sleep.

            He’s been so busy getting everything he needs set up, but now as he stands in the middle of the small office that he’s taken over, he smiles.

            Evelyn’s money has paid for more than he expected, and he spends most of his free time trying to think of ways he can repay her. She consistently tells him she’s doing this because she supports his cause so much, but he still feels indebted to her.

            She’s used all of her free time to help him acquire resources, to find office space to set up the clinic, to help him hire staff. She’s helped him find and fill out all of the required forms. It’s obvious that she really had been thinking about doing this for a long time considering how quickly she helps him set everything up.

            He never expected to be ready to open his clinic within a month.

            It’s late, and he’ll be opening in the morning. He should head home and get some sleep.

            There’s a knock on the door in the hallway, and he leaves his office with a frown. He opens the door hesitantly, but then pulls it wide when he sees her standing there.

            “Hey, I figured you’d still be here,” Evelyn says, and she holds up a bottle of champagne. “I thought maybe you’d want to celebrate.”

            He smiles, thinking how perfect that sounds. “Sure, here – come in,” he steps back to let her in.

            She’s been here helping him, she knows how it looks, but she still looks around as if thoroughly impressed. “Cullen, it looks wonderful.”

            “It’s a bit shabby, but -” he begins, feeling a bit embarrassed.

            “I told you we didn’t have to get the furniture used,” she says. “We had the money to get them from a store.”

            “No, no, that money is best spent elsewhere, helping patients,” he shakes his head.

            She turns back to look at him and smiles.

            Maker, he still loves that smile. He’s grown to love it even more in all of these months since he left her care in the hospital, when he’s finally been able to interact with her as a man instead of a patient.

            “You’re right, of course,” she says, and pulls him out of his reveries about her smile. “You know I just realized I didn’t think to bring glasses.”

            He laughs and reaches over to take the bottle from her. “I haven’t brought any coffee mugs or anything in yet, either.”

            “Guess we’re drinking from the bottle,” she giggles.

            “Somehow that feels fitting,” he observes. “Sitting in our nonprofit clinic the night before it opens, drinking champagne on the floor out of the bottle.”

            “On the floor?”

            “Well, we can’t be too classy. We’re already drinking out of the bottle, may as well just sit on the floor.”

            She shrugs playfully and smirks before she takes a seat against the wall behind them. She looks up at him and pats the floor next to her. “This seat looks free, but you better hurry up – it’s crowded in here.”

            He chuckles and takes his seat beside her. He stretches out his legs and begins to work on opening the champagne, pointing it away from them and carefully easing out the cork.

            It _pops_ and she gives a bubbly giggle before she says, “oooh, nice, it didn’t spill any.”

            “So little faith,” he teases, and he holds the bottle out to her. “Here you are, my la -”

            “Oh thank you, kind Ser, but please – don’t call me ‘my lady,’” she interjects. “I hate it.”

            “Ah, I forgot you actually are a lady,” he says. “I was just being a gentleman.”

            “Mmm, like always,” she agrees, a curious twinkle in her eyes. She drinks deeply from the bottle and holds it out to him.

            He takes it from her and stares for a moment at the opening, realizing he’s about to put his lips where hers just were. He looks up to see her smiling at him, and he holds her gaze as he puts his lips right where hers had just been.

            If he’s not mistaken, she almost seems to blush, and she licks her bottom lip before she looks away.

            He suddenly finds himself wondering if he’s not the only one who thinks about kissing. Which he does, far more than he should. He still wakes up from dreams about her, he still wakes up hard and spends far too long thinking about her under the hot water of his shower. He still longs to taste her and feel her soft skin beneath his hands…

            He shakes himself a little, realizing now’s not the time to think like that.

            He still needs to try to feel it out, he still needs to see if she would reciprocate.

            He’s easing back into normal life still, and he would hate to ruin things with one of the only friends he has. That’s how he sees her now; not as his doctor or the benefactor of his clinic. He sees her as one of his closest friends, and it’s not because of how she helped him as his doctor.

            It’s because she's the woman sitting next to him on the floor of his shabby clinic, drinking champagne out of the bottle to celebrate his success. It’s because she's the woman who supports his dream of helping other Templars leave the Order and overcome their lyrium addiction. It’s because of the help she gave him to succeed, while letting him take the lead and still achieve this all his way.

            It’s because of the way she lightly teases him and smiles at him when she’s encouraging him.

            And he knows, he doesn’t want to stay just friends forever. But for now, friends is a good starting point while he adjusts and focuses on the clinic and trying to be normal.

            They sit and drink the champagne in peaceful silence, broken occasionally by soft musings on his clinic and what his first day will bring.

            Maybe it’s the champagne, but soon they’re sitting closer together, their arms leaning against one another. He turns his face to look down at her, and she happens to glance up.

            Friends is nice, but kissing her would be better.

            He leans slowly, feeling unsure, feeling like maybe he shouldn’t do it. But he wants to, and he decides to stop resisting.

            For a second he thinks she’s about to close her eyes and lean forward, but suddenly she clears her throat and looks away.

            “I should let you get some sleep,” she says. “You have a big day tomorrow, you need your rest.”

            She stands up and brushes her skirt off with her hands, but then pauses and looks around. She almost looks a little lost.

            He pushes himself to his feet to stand beside her.

            “Evelyn, I -”

            “I should go, really,” she says, and he can hear a slight catch in her voice.

            “I’m sorry, I -”

            “No, I just – I had a long day,” she walks over to where she left her purse beside the door. “I’ll come by tomorrow to see how things are going.”

            She looks at him over her shoulder and gives him a fleeting smile before she opens the door and hurries out of the clinic.

            Cullen looks around the empty waiting room, feeling embarrassed and at a loss.

            He worries that he just ruined everything. Maybe tomorrow he can blame it on the champagne.

            He drains the rest of the bottle and thinks for a moment.

            Blaming the champagne would be the coward’s way out.

            He determines instead to tell her.

            He’ll give her time, he’ll work on wooing her and making it clear he wants to be more than friends.

            He’ll let her figure out what she wants, but he certainly already knows what he wants.

            And he’s going to succeed on that front, as well. He has to.

            Because he’s absolutely crazy about her.


	9. The Clinic Pt. 2

            Evelyn has hardly any time to rest these days, between her work with her patients and her after hours work at Cullen’s clinic.

            It was slow at first, getting the word out that it existed and was an available resource. And then it seemed like there was a hesitancy to actually use its services. A few Templars visited, however, and it seemed they spread the word because soon the clinic was busier than Evelyn had ever expected it to be. Especially this soon.

            She visits in the evenings after her work at the hospital, evaluating patients and assisting as she can. She’s helped stop several Templars from trying to quit cold turkey, instead giving them the resources to quit gradually over time. She’s certain she saved their lives, and when she and Cullen talk about them that evening he smiles so warmly at her that her heart races until she’s at home in bed alone.

            He’s never brought up the night before the clinic opened, when he leaned toward her and seemed like he was going to kiss her. And she’s avoided bringing it up because she’s scared where the conversation will lead.

            Somehow, she’s keeping herself satisfied with this level of interaction. She can’t have him, it would be wrong to let herself give into her desire.

            But she can help his clinic succeed, she can support him and joke with him. She can be beside him as he adjusts to life again, as he chooses his own path. She can stand cheering behind him as he continues to overcome his withdrawal.

            He still has bad days occasionally, but she notices him using the methods they all taught him to deal with it. He never lets himself falter, and she couldn’t be prouder of him.

            The more time they spend together, though, the more she finds little things she loves about him, little things she admires. She soon feels like she knows him better than anyone, considering how long they talk after their day at the clinic ends, considering how much time they spend together.

            She wonders too if he knows her best of anyone.

            Perhaps she can settle for just close friendship. Having him in her life is better than not having him at all.

            It’s why she doesn’t ever bring up her suspicion that he possibly tried to kiss her after drinking champagne.

            She’s terrified that the conversation will lead to the end of their friendship.

            And so they both ignore it.

            Since then, though, she’s noticed an intense look in his eyes when he speaks with her, an increased attentiveness. He’s sweet and teasing, he tries to make her laugh as much as he can. He always makes sure to have coffee or tea ready for her in the evening to help her through her after work shift at the clinic.

            When she loses a patient one day, he tries to insist that he drive her home, that she doesn’t need to work at the clinic that night. Instead she asks for just a few minutes’ quiet, and he closes the door to the small exam room to give her privacy. Or so she thinks, because moments later he returns with tea and sits beside her, one arm around her shoulders.

            For the first time since she began her work, she cries in front of someone else over her failure to save a patient. He pulls her against his chest, he lets her release her sorrow without saying a word, all the while rubbing her back with his strong hand. Before he finally releases her when she’s done crying, he presses a chaste, caring kiss to the top of her head.

            “You did everything you could, Evelyn,” he tells her. “Sometimes, that’s just the way things are. What matters is that you tried.”

            It takes all of her willpower not to kiss him in that moment.

            It takes all of her willpower not to tell him she loves him.

            Because in that moment, she realizes she does.

            Instead, she dooms herself to platonic friendship, and loving from afar. Sometimes she thinks about sending a message to Zevran, of trying to get Cullen out of her system.

            But she hardly entertains the idea because she knows she doesn’t want anyone else.

            She goes home after their evenings together in the clinic, after walking out the door together and getting into their respective cars with a final warm smile goodbye. She pours herself a large glass of wine, and her cat, Bob, cuddles up to her while she reads or does research.

            She tries to make herself content. Having him in her life in any way is better than not at all, and she respects her work as a doctor too much to take up with a former patient.

            Or at least, that’s what she tells herself. Sometimes she remembers what Zevran said that night outside the club.

            _“You sound scared.”_

            She tries to avoid that notion.

            She’s a professional, that’s all.

           

           

 

            Evelyn isn’t able to make it to the clinic that day because Bob is sick, and she rushes her to the vet right after work.

            Cullen tells her it’s fine, that they’re having a slow day anyway. She’s fairly certain he’s lying to make her feel better. But while she’s at the vet, he texts and asks her to come by if she’s able to after.

            _I have something to speak with you about, if you can manage. I hope your cat’s all right. Let me know._

            She reads through the text as she waits for the veterinarian, and she frowns. She quickly replies that she’ll come by as soon as she can, worried that he’s having a craving, that he needs a treatment himself, or that something is wrong with the clinic.

            She gets Bob home and settled in before she hurries to the clinic. It’s after hours, now. The vet took much longer than she anticipated, and she’s rushing, still hoping that he’s doing all right.

            She dashes through the empty, dark waiting room to his office, opening the door without knocking.

            She’s not entirely sure what she expected, but it’s certainly not the sight that greets her.

            The lights are dimmed, and there’s a bottle of champagne and two flutes in the middle of the desk. There’s also two decorated cookies sitting on plates.

            He turns from where he was looking out the window and gives a crooked grin when he sees that it’s her.

            “Are – I thought maybe something was wrong,” she says, hesitantly walking into the office.

            “Oh, no – I’m sorry, I was busy and my texting still isn’t – sorry, it sounded better in my head,” he says. He’s still smiling at her, though now he looks a little sheepish.

            “So what’s all this?” she walks to the desk and looks down at the cookies. They’re decorated with icing and the number ‘2’ on them.

            “I – uh, I wanted a little treat,” he chuckles. He’s definitely blushing and sheepish now. “It’s an important anniversary, I thought maybe I would celebrate, and I was hoping you’d join me.”

            “What’s the occasion?” she smiles and sets her purse down finally.

            “It’s been two years since you saved my life,” he says, and the intense look in his eyes makes her breath catch in her throat. “It’s been two years since I was trying to get clean and ended up in your hospital. But that set me on the road to recovery and now – well, here I am, two years later.”

            Evelyn feels like crying, and she takes a moment to steady herself before she tries to reply. “I – I guess I didn’t keep track of the date,” she says softly. “Two years already? And you’ve accomplished so much.”

            “I had help,” he admits, and he finally steps forward and opens the bottle of champagne, pouring it into the flutes and handing her one.

            “You did plenty of it on your own,” she tells him. “I gave you the means, but everything you did you did on your own.”

            He smiles at her again. “True, but it still felt fitting to celebrate with you.” He holds up his flute as if toasting her. “Thank you, Evelyn.”

            She blinks rapidly and finds she can’t speak. She nods instead and gently taps her glass against his with a soft _clink_.

            He picks up the cookie sitting in front of him and takes a bite, still smiling as he chews. She picks up her own, and for several moments they simply devour their celebratory cookies in peaceful silence.

            It’s been years since she had anyone she could enjoy this much silence with, and she appreciates it about their friendship. They don’t always need words, just being near each other is enough.

            Two years. She’s known him for two years.

            She can’t always remember how he looked when he came in to her clinic on the brink of death. She looks at the healthy man before her, taking in his cheeks ruddy and covered in stubble, the twinkle in his golden eyes, the little bit of weight that he’s put on. She loves everything about him, even his struggles. She remembers watching him overcome them, and her heart swells with pride that he accomplished so much.

            She loves that she got to watch him pull himself through it and succeed.

            But she looks down at her cookie and champagne and knows she can’t ever say any of that to him.

            “How’s your cat?” he finally asks after they’ve both finished their cookies. He walks around the desk to refill her champagne flute, coming to stand before her.

            “Oh, Bob’s fine, just has some meds she needs to take -” she’s distracted by his close proximity and her thoughts, and she doesn’t notice him halt in his movements.

            “Wait, Evelyn – you never told me you actually did name your cat Bob,” he says, and she feels her stomach lurch.

            She never told him she followed his suggestion. She didn’t ever want him to know she named her female kitten Bob because every time she says the name she thinks of him and his humorous suggestion.

            “I – um, I -” she doesn’t know what to say, she doesn’t know how to get out of the awkward moment.

            “I can’t believe you took my advice,” he tells her, and his voice is full of humor but also something else, something deeper.

            Before she can stop herself, she says, “I care about you, of course I took your advice to name her.”

            For a moment, it’s like time stops.

            She raises her gaze to his, realizing what she said, realizing what she just confessed.

            There’s an indecipherable intensity in his eyes, and he looks away for a moment. He sets the bottle of champagne down, and then reaches for her glass and takes it from her to place beside the bottle.

            She feels like she needs to say something, she feels like she needs to correct her words, to backtrack.

            But she’s riveted by his slow movements, by the slight upward tug at the corner of his mouth like he wants to smile. She can’t think of anything to say.

            He turns back to face her, and for a moment he simply holds her gaze.

            She finally opens her mouth to speak, to say something, but she can hardly start to get out, “Cullen -” before he acts.

            His hands are on either side of her face, the way that he moves so quickly backs her into the wall beside her as his lips crush down onto hers. His suffocating kiss muffles the gasp of surprise that tries to escape her lips. He’s twisting his mouth against hers, his tongue slides into her mouth and searches for hers.

            She moans, eagerly meeting his wandering tongue with hers to dance needy and desperate as she tries to taste him.

            She forgets all of her protests, she forgets her determination not to ever give in.

            He’s kissing her and it feels like the first true kiss of her life.

            His hands are cupping her cheeks, one slides into her hair and he holds her to him, not relenting in his passionate movements against her mouth.

            He gently tugs her bottom lip between his teeth and moans her name, and she feels her knees weaken. She can’t stop herself, and her fingers run through the back of his hair, twisting his curls, trying desperately to hold his face even closer to hers.

            “Cullen, Cullen – I -” she tries to say, but his lips are back against hers and she can’t finish any words as she moans.

            His hands finally lower and he grasps her breasts roughly through her shirt, and then slide lower and squeeze her ass. He’s still pushing her into the wall, and he lets his hands wander before he grips the top of her shirt and tugs.

            The buttons spring free, she can hear them _ping_ as they hit the hard floor, and her lacy bra is exposed to him. She gasps but he slides his hot mouth along her throat and her surprise turns into more desperate moans and whimpers of his name.

            He caresses her, pinching her hard nipples through the lace of her bra, and his desperation and eagerness as he moves surprises her. He tries to slide his hand under the lace but the tight shirt and lace get in his way, and he hesitates a moment before he grips the lace and tugs, just like he did with her shirt.

            The lace tears away from the wire and he gives a wicked grin as he lowers his mouth to her finally exposed flesh and captures it with the wet heat of his lips and tongue.

            Her knees are weak, she can’t even be bothered to care that he’s now ruined two items of her clothing. She’s whimpering as her mind reels from the attention of his mouth on her, and she feels his hand slide down and try to caress between her legs through her tight skirt.

            He gives a small growl and reaches down to slide her skirt up above her hips, and then he hooks his hands under her knees and lifts her. She wraps her legs around him and returns her mouth to his, eager to kiss him again after only a few moments of not feeling his lips on her.

            He turns away from the wall and takes a few long strides toward the desk, not breaking their kiss as he does so. When he reaches the desk he releases one hand to swipe everything off the end of it, and the papers scatter and champagne flutes and bottle go flying. The flutes shatter into several pieces, the sound of them breaking echoing through the office.

            Cullen doesn’t even pause, and instead he half-slams her onto the desk on her back and resumes his rough caresses and their desperate kiss. His hands are working between them, trying to free himself from his slacks and trying to slide her underwear aside. He gets frustrated with it, and gives her another wicked smirk as he hooks his fingers into it and rips it, pulling the torn pieces off and throwing them on the floor.

            She reaches down and continues his fumbling with his slacks, eager to free him. She wraps her fingers around him when she does, and she moans when she feels his hot, velvety skin in her grasp. She pumps her hand up and down his thick length a few times and he groans, but then he quickly pushes her hand aside and angles himself for her wet opening.

            He slides fingers along her, but he seems impatient to be inside her and with only a moment’s hesitation he slides himself in, one fluid motion until he’s as deep as he can push himself.

            Her head snaps back against the desk and she gives a gasping cry. His eyes are clenched shut and he seems like he’s taking a deep breath before he locks eyes with her. He grabs her wrists and pins them down above her head, and slowly lowers his mouth back to hers.

            It’s only one more moment’s pause before he begins thrusting, and she cries out.

            She’s had plenty of sex in her life.

            She’s had several partners and plenty of experience.

            But no one’s ever taken her like this before.

            They’ve all been too cautious, like she was a fragile doll, or too dispassionate like she was just a way for them to find their release.

            But this is raw passion.

            It’s hunger.

            It’s a desperate need and all she can think is that she wants _more._

_More._

_More_.

            His hands slide from where they’re pinning down her wrists to hold her hands, and he locks his fingers with hers. It’s intimate, feeling more so than all the hesitant caresses and kisses she’s experienced before. It’s a gentle action, even though his thrusts are hard and fast, his hips jerking into hers in a wild frenzy that’s making her mewl and cry out every time he pushes deeper.

            Each of his thrusts is making the desk creak, the legs dragging back and forth on the hard floor, roughly scraping in tandem to his every movement.

            His mouth is devouring her, sucking and tugging her lips until they feel swollen and are throbbing from the attention. He’s stealing her breaths, her moans, and each time she sobs his name he gives her a crooked grin and pounds into her as deeply as he can.

            She should be thinking about how wrong this is, about how she should have told him no.

            Instead all she’s thinking about is how full and _whole_ she feels with him inside her.

            She hadn’t fully known how much she needed him. Not until he kissed her, especially not until he kissed her like he did.

            And now she’s lost, knowing that she’ll never be able to get enough of him, she’ll never want to walk away from this.

            The dingy office is filled with the slapping sound of his desperate thrusts and masculine groans as he snaps his hips against hers. Her gasps and cries are echoing through the room, and she’s glad she didn’t come by to see him until after the clinic had closed. She’s not sure she could stop making the noises she’s making in response to his brutal passion. And she knows now, she can tell, that he had intended this, that he had wanted to get her alone at last. She wonders if he had meant to speak with her about this tonight, if he'd been wanting to make his move. She isn’t sure if a waiting room full of patients would have stopped him once he heard her admit what she had.

            He buries his face beside her ear and moans her name, his voice husky and deep, and she feels herself pushing to the edge as she listens to his heavy breathing in her ear.

            He’s still taking her hard and fast, but he begins to roll his hips too, hitting her sweet spot and making her nearly scream his name as she realizes she’s about to lose herself.

            He can tell too, and lifts his face to watch her, to drink in the sight of her as she thrusts her chest out and bucks her hips wildly in response to his. She’s gone. Her vision blackens, her toes curl in the heels that are dangling loosely from her feet, and one of them clatters to the floor as it finally falls off her foot.

            Never before has she felt so sated, so positively _right_ as she falls apart. It seems to last forever, until she feels like she’s forgotten every word she knows, even her own name. The only thing she knows how to say is _his_ name.

            Cullen.

            _Cullen_.

            She’s sobbing it, still jerking her hips against his, still feeling her orgasm prolonging as he keeps up his relentless pace.

            He finally releases one of her hands and braces himself on the desk, and he changes his pace, biting his lower lip as he does. His eyes clench tight, his brows furrow, but the scarred corner of his mouth tugs up as he delves deep and she feels it.

            His hot release fills her as he makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, and it feels almost as wonderful to her as the euphoria she just experienced. Her sex is still throbbing slightly around him, as if she could milk him for more, as if she craves more.

            And she does. She’s already thinking about how much she wants to flip them over on the desk and ride him until they break it while screaming each other’s names.

            Instead she tries to catch her breath, looking up into his warm, golden eyes. He almost looks just as surprised as she feels, as if he didn’t quite expect that level of obsessive passion when he took her.

            He leans back over her and presses a possessive kiss to her lips.

            “Evelyn,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, his eyes locking with hers so that she can’t possibly look away. “I’ve wanted that – I’ve wanted you for so long.”

            Her heart soars, but then everything comes crashing down.

            _Shit_.

            She shouldn’t have done this, she shouldn’t have given in.

            Her realization must show on her face, because suddenly he’s frowning at her. “Are you all right?” he asks, and the genuine concern on his face breaks her heart.

            “Cullen, we shouldn’t have – oh _Maker_ I’m such a fucking idiot,” she pushes gently on his chest and he pulls himself from her and stands up. She can feel his release spill out of her onto the desk, sticky on her thighs as she tries to stand up. She pushes her skirt back down, but doesn’t bother picking up her torn underwear.

            He stands and watches her as she tries to pull her shirt back together, but he popped so many buttons off and she can’t close it all the way now. The torn lace of her bra is hanging awkwardly, and she tries to adjust it as best she can. He doesn’t bother trying to put himself back in his slacks, instead he’s simply standing and staring at her.

            The look in his eyes is breaking her heart.

            “Cullen, you were my _patient_ – I met you in the most vulnerable moments of your life,” she says. Her voice is cracking. She wants to cry. She didn’t mean to hurt him, she didn’t mean to let things get this far. She had just wanted him for so long she couldn’t resist when he had finally kissed her. She especially couldn’t resist when he’d kissed her the way he had.

            “But I’m not your patient any longer, and we didn’t even really get to know each other until after I’d left the clinic,” he points out. He still looks so sad, but a certain resolve is coming into his eyes. She can tell, he’s not going to give up his arguments easily.

            “It’s still highly unethical, and unprofessional,” she says, rubbing her forehead. “I – I was responsible for you during your recovery, I saw you at your worst, I just -”

            “Exactly, you understand me,” he says. “You don’t still see me as that broken man, do you, Evelyn?”

            “No, of course not,” she shakes her head. “I know how far you’ve come, and I know it wasn’t all me. I just – this – this can’t happen, it shouldn’t have happened.”

            “I don’t see the problem, I don’t feel taken advantage of – I started it, didn’t I?” he finally pushes himself back into his slacks and steps forward as he buttons them and pulls up the zipper.

            “But I – I’ve wanted this, since -” her voice cracks. She can’t admit that, she can’t tell him.

            He gets a gleam in his eyes, like he knows what she didn’t say. He steps forward and grabs her by the shoulders. “Evelyn, me too. But we waited to act on it. It’s been enough time. I – I want you. I don’t want to let you go. You’re mine, you’re – you’re perfect for me.”

            He pulls her closer.

            "Evelyn, I love you," he says. And she can see it in his eyes, he means it.

             "I - I-" she stutters. But she can't say it. She can't, it's wrong. She hadn't meant for any of this to happen.

              She pulls away from him and hurries to where she left her purse. "I'm so sorry," she whispers.

               And she flees.


	10. Always Pt. 1

            Cullen doesn’t fully remember driving home.

            His mind is still racing, and he unlocks the door to his small apartment and flips on the lights.

            He’d forgotten that he got flowers, as part of his plan. But there they are, on the table waiting for her.

            He had wanted to invite her back. He meant…he meant for everything to go differently tonight.

            He had been leading to telling her he loves her, but in a very different way. He shouldn’t have let himself get carried away. He had just felt lost after he heard her admit that she cared so softly.

            He had originally been intending to ask her if she could love him too, after a night of tender romance.

            The part that hurt the most was that he felt certain that she did.

            The look in her eyes, the way she had responded to his kiss. The sound of her voice when she was moaning his name. She’d been so eager, matching his passion with her own, and he could tell. He knew.

            But what he couldn’t understand was why she had left. He was no longer her patient. He had stopped going to get treatments from her in order to create that distance. He wanted her to see him as a man, as a person, not as someone she still had to fix.

            He wasn’t relying on her anymore. He thought he was her equal now.

            But he can’t make sense of her resistance to this. He doesn’t feel like she took advantage of his weaknesses. She’s too sweet to have even ever considered it. And if she’s cared about him for as long as she implied, then she’s done her best for almost two years not to act on it.

            He sets his things down by the door and heads to the small bedroom, not caring about anything.

            The image of her beneath him is burned into his mind. He can still taste her, he can still feel her around him.

            It was the most exquisite feeling he’d ever experienced, and he never wanted to let it go. He wants her with him always.

            He strips down and puts on sweats before he throws himself onto his bed, not bothering to get under the covers.

            He lies there thinking over the evening, thinking over what went wrong, what could have gone better. He tries to think, tries to figure out how he can fix this.

            He lays there for hours, unable to sleep.

            How can he fix this? He wonders, because all he knows is that he absolutely has to.

            Now that he’s tasted her, now that he’s been inside her, he doesn’t know if he can go back to friends, or nothing. He’s never loved anyone before, and he refuses to let her slip through his fingers.

            He’s not sure how long it’s been since he got into bed, since time passes in a daze as he thinks over the events of the evening.

            But as he’s laying there thinking about how to make her see that they were meant to be, he hears a knock on the door.

            It’s timid at first and he wonders if he’s imagining it because it’s what he wants.

            Then it comes again, louder, more insistently.

            He sits up and looks out into the hall, tensed and listening.

            The knocking comes again, and continues. Whoever is knocking won’t stop.

            He bounds out of bed and rushes to the door.

            He’s hoping, he’s praying.

            It has to be, please let it be –

            He reaches the door and opens it, his eagerness and desperation showing in his actions as he _yanks_ it and half-runs into the doorway.

            Evelyn.

            She’s standing there, wearing a loose sweater and leggings, wide-eyed and almost breathless like she ran there.

            They only stare at each other for a moment, and there’s a million things he wants to say. And none of them come to mind.

            She’s staring at him, her eyes moving over his face as if she’s drinking him in. They almost look a little red and swollen, like she’s been crying.

            He wants to take her in his arms and make it better. He hates thinking that she was crying, least of all because of him.

            He wants to say her name, but before he can she takes a small step forward.

            “I love you,” she says without greeting, her voice firm but sounding almost rushed. It’s like she can’t get the declaration out fast enough.

            He stares at her, trying to absorb her words.

            He almost wonders if he’s dreaming.

            “I should have said it,” she says, her voice soft and desperate. “I should have told you. I should have told you ages ago. I – I’ve loved you for so long, I didn’t even realize – I – Cullen, you’re – you’re everything to me.”

            He digs the nails of one hand into his palm, and it hurts.

            Not a dream.

            She’s here, she’s telling him the words he’s longed to hear.

            “I’m so sorry,” she continues, and her voice breaks. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have run.”

            He stares at her for only a moment longer before he reaches for her, wanting to pull her into his arms. He grabs her arm and pulls her into the apartment and closes the door. She’s staring up at him, her eyes are still wide, and she almost looks like she wants to cry.

            He sneezes.

            And he sneezes again.

            And again.

            “Oh,” he hears her softly exclaim as he turns away from her, awkwardly covering his mouth with his arm.

            He begins to make his way down the hall, trying to see through his watering eyes as he sneezes.

            “Cullen, are you okay?” he hears her soft voice say, and he can tell she’s trailing him down the hall.

            He can’t answer her through the sneezes, but he nods and makes his way to his medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He opens the familiar bottle and opens it, depositing a single pill in the palm of his hand.

            As he swallows it he turns to face her, and sees an interesting frown on her face.

            “Are you all right? You haven’t sneezed like that in ages in response to Bob,” she muses.

            He chuckles, now that he’s finally stopped sneezing. “My allergy meds just must have been wearing off.”

            She raises an eyebrow at him. “You take allergy meds?”

            “Every day since you got a cat,” he confesses softly. “So that I could still be near you, always.”

            Her eyes widen, her mouth hangs open. “You – I – Cullen, I don’t know what to say.”

            “Tell me you love me again,” he implores her, and he steps forward to take her shoulders in his hands. “Say it, Evelyn, if you mean it.”

            “I – I mean it,” she breathes. “Cullen, I love you. I love you more than words, I – I think I’ve always loved you.”

            He smiles, unable to resist the feeling of happiness spreading through him. He’s not even a little angry that she ran off earlier. He can’t be, not now that she’s here telling him, looking at him so desperately.

            “Evelyn,” he murmurs, and steps forward as he wraps his arms around her. “I love you.”

            She gives him a trembling smile as she cranes her neck and tilts her head up invitingly. “I shouldn’t have ever left,” she whispers. “I love you too much to run away from this again.”

            It’s all he wanted to hear.

            He lifts her into his arms and she giggles lightly, and again the sound washes over him and he’s at peace. All he’ll ever want in life is her, all he’ll ever need is her. Just Evelyn and her heavenly laughter.

            She wraps her arms and legs around him and he carries her to the bedroom. This time, he’ll take more time with her. This time he’ll woo her and be romantic. And suddenly he remembers and he lays her back on the bed before he disentangles himself from her.

            “Cullen -”

            “I’ll be right back,” he assures her, and he rushes to the table in the living room where he had placed her flowers. He picks them up and dashes back to the bedroom, and he sees her eyebrows rise when she sees him holding the bouquet. “I got these for you.”

            “When?” she asks, and she takes the bouquet into her arms and buries her nose in the flowers. “Love, they smell amazing.”          

            He notices the term of endearment. He notices the loving look in her eyes.

            If he wasn’t completely lost before this moment, he knows he is now.

            “I was – I was hoping that tonight I could get you back here, to ask you – to ask you if you could love me,” he admits, and he feels a bit shy about it. It’s surprising to him how shy he can still feel about that after hearing her declare it. “I’ve just wanted you to say it for so long.”

            She smiles up at him, still holding the flowers against her chest. “I love you,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes, as if she knows just how meaningful it will be for him to hear it. “Cullen, please – make love to me.”

            He smiles. Hearing those words from her feels even more  _right_.

            He takes the flowers from her arms and sets them on the nightstand before he reaches for her. She’s smiling so sweetly, so invitingly. He stretches himself over her on the bed, and she lays back, still staring up at him with a smile. He kisses her gently at first, just familiarizing himself with her lips, with her tongue.

            She lets out a soft whimper, and her fingers tighten on his back. “Cullen,” she breathes, “I need you.”

            He slides his hands up her side, pushing her sweater up as he goes. She’s not wearing anything underneath, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

            “I figured I’d make it easier on you since you seemed so frustrated with my clothing earlier,” she teases softly.

            “I’m sorry about that,” he says but he’s smirking. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

            She giggles. “I don’t care, really.”

            He pulls her sweater off of her, followed by her leggings. Again, she’s not wearing anything underneath.

            “Maker’s breath, Evelyn,” he tells her. He's finally getting to see all of her now, and it's like he's been blind until this moment. “You’re – you’re beautiful.”

            She reaches for him and pulls him down to her, running her hands up his back and pressing his bare chest to hers. He’s kissing every inch of her face, sliding his mouth along her throat, exploring her with his hands. He wants to move more slowly this time but he can tell they’re both starting to get impatient. He needs her.

            They’ll have years for romance.

            He plants kisses down her neck and her chest, he moves down her body. He places her legs over his shoulder and kisses the inside of her thighs. She’s gasping, panting breaths already escaping her lips and all he’s done is kiss her.

            She moans when he touches her with his tongue, and she slips the fingers of one of her hands into his hair, softly gasping his name. He gently begins licking the small pearl at the top of her slit, swirling his tongue and selfishly tasting her. He’s thought about this for so long, and the sounds she’s making are even better than he’s been imagining. He slides two fingers into her and she cries his name, and he can feel her clench slightly around him. Only a few more moments and her back is arching and she’s calling out his name.

            He wants to hear her say his name like that forever.

            He carries her through it and then stands back from the bed to slide his sweats off. She looks at him from under heavy eyelids and he grins at the sight of her. She’s flushed and still trying to regain her senses, he can tell, but she sits up and crawls toward him.

            “Come here,” she says, and she crooks a finger at him.

            He kneels back on the bed and she wraps her arms around him, pulling herself into his lap and crushing her mouth to his. He holds her to him and she’s moving her hips, trying to direct him into her. She finds what she’s looking for and slides herself over him slowly, so slowly he groans.

            For a moment, they just hold each other and kiss tenderly. “Evelyn, I love you,” he murmurs against her lips.

            “I – I love you too,” she gasps as she begins to move, bouncing herself lightly on him. He holds her tightly to him, helping her move.

            Every moment is electric, every movement between them is the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt. They start slowly, with gentle kisses and soft thrusts, but soon their need and passion overwhelms them. He takes her hips into his large hands and helps lift her, wanting and needing more, and he can tell from the gasping whimpers and cries that she’s making that she feels the same.

            It happens at the same moment, and he groans as she cries his name. He feels her throbbing around him and he’s lost at the feeling, finding his release within her as she rocks her hips sporadically as she falls apart in his arms. When they’re done, they hold each other tight, unwilling to separate.

            “Evelyn, you’re amazing,” he whispers. “I want you with me, always.”

            She giggles softly. “Good, because that’s where I want to be too.”


	11. Always Pt. 2

            She’s covered in a thin layer of sweat, and she can feel he is too. His body is hot, and heavy, and pressing her down into the mattress. He’s still buried deep inside her, though she can tell he’s softening after the powerful release they found together only moments before. His face nuzzles into her tangled black hair, and he’s breathing just as heavily as she is.

            “I used to think about you,” she whispers softly.

            “Hm?” he murmurs, seeming as if he’s so tired he can’t manage actually asking a question.

            “For far longer than I should admit,” she continues quietly. “I thought I said no to the marriage proposal because I didn’t love him, but – I did it because of you. I did it because I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

            “I touched myself thinking about you in my room in the clinic far more often than I should admit,” he tells her quietly. “It got to the point I think I was hoping you would catch me.”

            She giggles, and she feels him jerk slightly when he feels her clench around him with her laughter. These quiet confessions somehow feel so right, so natural. They’ve hardly spoken in hours, except for each other’s names, cries to the Maker, and desperate begging for more from each other. But now there’s a peaceful lull, as if their urgency is wearing off slightly and they can talk. It only took four times to reach this point of comfortable peace, and she lays there savoring how delightfully tired and satisfied she feels.

            _Maker_ he’s a marvelous man. He has all of the passion she’s always longed for, all of the intensity, and somehow she can tell it will never go away. She’s never had anyone look at her the way he does, she’s never had anyone say her name or whisper in her ear the way he does. She’s never had anyone focus on her so intensely, or care more about her than themselves. She’s never believed anyone so deeply when they’ve told her they love her.

            “Maker’s breath, Evelyn, I just realized – is Bob ok? Do – do we need to go check on her?” He raises his head finally and looks down at her, and the concern in his eyes is so touching for a moment she can’t answer.

            “She’s fine, she’s with a friend,” she tells him.

            “Is that so?” He’s raising an eyebrow at her. He’s giving her the crooked grin that makes her weak in the knees and wetter than a simple smile should.

            “I – um, well, I was hopeful things would go this way when I came over,” she admits, giggling again.

            He presses a soft kiss to her lips. “Honestly I’m not sure I could see them going differently.”

            “You weren’t mad at me?” she peers into his face almost timidly, worried that she hurt him deeply. It was only for a few hours, but she worried that she had caused him too much distress.

            “No, never angry,” he says and presses another quick, tender kiss to her lips. “Confused, determined to figure out a way to make you see that we belong together, maybe. But not angry.”

            “I’m still so sorry that I ran out,” she murmurs. “I was a coward. I should have stayed and talked to you.”

            “It’s all right, it seems you came to your senses easily enough,” he teases lightly.

            “I had help.”

            “Oh?”

            “I – uh, well, I have a really good pair of friends who had a slightly tumultuous beginning to their relationship,” she admits. “I went over to their place and asked their advice.”

            “I’ll have to thank them if you came back to me because of what they told you.” His eyes are twinkling as he says it. “You’ll have to introduce me sometime.”

            She giggles. “I’m sure Marian and Fenris will insist on it.”

            He furrows his brows as he stares down at her. “I – Marian and Fenris?”

            “You might recognize her as ‘Hawke,’ only a few people call her Marian,” she tells him, and she sees the realization dawn on his face.

            “You’re – you’re friends with Hawke?” he asks, sounding thoroughly surprised.

            “Yes, she’s one of my closest friends,” she answers, smiling. “She remembers you. We’ll have to get you two together again so you can get to know each other outside of the disaster that was Kirkwall.”

            “Has she – has she told you about Kirkwall?”

            “Yes, she has.”

            “Did you know the whole time? Have you – have you always known the stories of what I went through?” he asks, and he’s frowning at her, looking bemused and almost worried.

            “Yes,” she confesses softly. “It was part of your file, and Marian had told me about Kirkwall and a certain Knight-Captain she knew.”

            “You never told me you knew.”

            “I thought you would tell me in your own time if you wanted to,” she shrugs. “I wanted to respect your privacy.”

            He’s staring at her with a curious expression on his face, and then he leans forward and begins pressing kisses to her lips. They’re gentle at first, and then begin to increase in intensity.

            “I didn’t think it was possible to love you more,” he murmurs when he pulls away for a moment. “You’ve always been so good to me.”

            She giggles. “So you love me? This isn’t just a one-night stand?”

            She can’t help but tease him to break up the mood. She’s feeling almost smothered and overwhelmed by the intense realization of their feelings for one another. Everything is happening so fast, and she’s worried she’s either going to screw it all up or somehow lose it. She’s scared, she’s anxious, but then again, he’s still looking at her like that.

            “Do you really think I could ever only have you for one night?” he whispers, and he leans down to her ear. “How many times have I already taken you? How many times have I made you beg me and cry my name? This is only the beginning, love.”

            She feels a shiver run down her spine and her skin prickles with goose bumps as a soft moan escapes her lips like a sigh. She tries to steady herself and teases, “You didn’t even take me to dinner, what am I supposed to think?”

            He chuckles and his breath tickles her ear so that she shivers again. “I suppose you’re right, I guess I should actually take you on a real date,” he murmurs. “How about tomorrow night? Dinner, drinks, walking on the beach – and then back to bed so that I can bury myself deep inside you again and again?”

            “Cullen,” she moans, “that sounds – Maker you’re perfect.”

            She realizes she can feel him hardening against her again, and she drags her nails down his back until she cups the roundness of his rear. His teeth are nibbling her earlobe, his breath is hot against her skin, and while she had thought she was exhausted suddenly she feels wide awake.

            His hands are sliding everywhere, he’s suddenly caressing her with intent, his purpose clear.

            Her head is spinning, she still feels like she’s reeling from the last time. But his mouth captures one of her nipples and sucks it gently and she cries out and all she wants is more of him.

            “You know, I think I’m becoming addicted to you,” she moans softly.

            He chuckles and moves between her legs before he slides into her easily, not taking any time before he begins to thrust lightly. “Is that so? It’s a good thing you’re a doctor,” he murmurs. He increases his pace, and she feels herself responding immediately, her feet bracing on either side of his legs to help her answer him.

            Every time he thrusts into her she cries out, intensely feeling every inch of him as he slides in and out of her. His panting breaths and moans are sending shivers down her spine as they caress her ear, and he’s whispering sweet nothings that are pushing her closer and closer to the edges just from the sound of his voice.

            They’ve only been having sex for a few hours, now, but she’s beginning to feel like he knows her body better than anyone. She’s already close to falling apart, and he can tell and seems excited. But he slows down and she knows he’s trying to tease her – and he’s doing an expert job of it.

            “Evelyn,” he whispers, his voice husky. “I want you to know I’ll spend every day of my life making sure you know just how much I love you.”

            It comes upon her unexpectedly, but his words and his careful attention as he says it pushes her over. She’s whimpering, mewling his name as her thighs tighten around him as her body tenses and clenches. He’s almost smirking above her as he watches, thoroughly enjoying the reaction he’s provoked out of her.

            He groans as he increases his pace and quickly finds his own release, calling her name as he does.

            It’s still the most wonderful sound she’s heard, and she smiles as she revels in the fact that it’s actually happening. He’s been saying her name all night. He’s been telling her he loves her. He’s been inside her, moving and exploring and bringing them both to new heights of pleasure that she’s never experienced with anyone.

            She never thought she’d actually find the passion she was looking for. She thought she was setting herself up for expectations that would never be met, for desperate longing for her whole life.

            But now she knows, she just hadn’t met _him_ yet. He’s everything she wanted and yet more perfect than she had ever imagined.

 

 

 

            He knows that it’s a nightmare, but he can’t pull himself out of it. He’s trapped back in that damn cage, and even though he’s trying to tell himself it’s a dream and he should wake up, he can’t.

            _“Cullen?”_

            It’s the soft, beautiful voice of the one he loves more than anything.

            _“Love, are you all right?”_

            She calls him _love_.

            He flutters his eyes open, the sound of her voice finally enough to pull him out of the cage, to erase Kinloch.

            He looks up and sees her peering down at him, her brows furrowed. But when she sees his eyes open and knows he’s coherent she smiles.

            “Are you all right?” she asks again.

            “Yes, I – thank you,” he smiles at her. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

            “No, love I’m glad you did. There’s no reason for you to have to suffer through nightmares when I can get you out of them,” she presses a soft kiss to his lips and then places her head back on his chest. “I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

            He squeezes her tightly to him. Just sleeping beside her already helps more than she could know. “You already have, Evelyn. You’ve already made everything better. I love you.”

            “I love you. Always.”


	12. Epilogue

            The sun is pouring in through the window, and he opens his eyes and for a moment isn’t sure why his back feels so warm.

            Then he realizes he feels fur, and he knows what it has to be.

            Bob is stretched out against his back again as he sleeps. He’s always marveled at how much she loves sleeping against or on him. It’s like she knows he’s allergic and doesn’t like cats and forces her presence on him in retaliation.

            If he’s honest though, he loves the little black cat. Over the year that he’s been around her, he’s taken a shine to her and finally feels like maybe he understands why people like cats.

            He blinks his eyes and stares at the beautiful sight in front of him, feeling as if he’s born again as he takes it in. Evelyn is facing him, her head on the pillow and one arm bent and tucked under her head. He smiles to himself as he takes in the incredibly familiar sight.

            It may be familiar, but he’s still not tired of it. And he knows he never will be.

            Her long black eyelashes are resting on her lily-white skin, and her full pink lips are hanging slightly open. Occasionally when she exhales, she lets out a soft sigh. He smiles as he watches her, and then he leans forward to wake her softly with kisses.

            As soon as he moves, there’s movement on the bed and excited, heavy breathing. The sheets are tugged and trampled as their happy companion bounds up to their faces, and before Cullen can stop him he begins licking Evelyn’s face.

            She gasps and pulls out of sleep, her head trying to move instinctively away from the Mabari puppy kissing her face.

            “Pup – stop – _stop_ ,” she murmurs, and then lets out a half-squealing giggle as she continues to try to pull away from the puppy.

            “Leave your mother alone, Pup,” he says firmly, and he finally reaches over to pull the puppy away from Evelyn.

            She’s blinking and looking around, trying to figure out what time it is. She catches sight of Cullen and immediately smiles. “Good morning, love.”

            Time slows, and he isn’t even able to explain why the idea came upon him so suddenly when she asks him later.

            The sun is framing her dark hair until it glows and almost creates a halo of light around her. He remembers the very first moment he saw her, when she was framed by the fluorescent lights over the hospital bed.

            The look in her eyes is intoxicating, and he can’t shake himself free of his sudden thoughts, his sudden urge.

            He watches the woman he loves be mauled gently by the puppy they adopted together, and he soaks in her heavenly, carefree giggles. It’s still his favorite sound in the world.

            She’s still everything to him, even after all of this time. It’s been over a year now, and he still feels like he can’t get enough of her. He still feels like they just professed their love for the first time, every time they say it. And now he lies drinking in the sight of her in their large bed in the house they bought over six months ago.

            He lays watching her giggle and play with their puppy before she lifts her gaze to his.

            He’s thought about this for so long, for longer than he ever plans to admit to her. But all he knows in that moment is that it’s all he wants and he can’t stop himself.

            “Evelyn,” he says softly, and he waits until she looks up at him. “Marry me.”

            He sees the astonishment come across her face as she absorbs his words, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide. Pup is still trying to lick her but she gently pushes him aside as she rolls toward Cullen and pulls herself closer to where he’s laying.

            “Yes, Cullen,” she answers. “Yes, yes, yes.”

            She’s giggling and kissing him, and he wraps his arms around her and draws her to him until she’s lying on top of him. He kisses her deeply, his arms so tight around her he thinks he’s probably making it hard for her to breathe.

            Something wet touches both of their cheeks and she lets out a playful shriek as they break their kiss and look at the puppy that ruined the moment.

            “I’ll let him out, real quick, but stay in bed because I’ll be right back for more,” Cullen says, and kisses her on the forehead before he stands and finds his underwear. He whistles for the puppy to follow him, and he glances back at the bed to see her lying back on the pillows, watching him go with the sweetest smile on her face.

            She said yes.

            She wants to marry him.

            She’s going to be his wife.

            He lets Pup out in the backyard and feeds him before he hurries back to the bedroom. He puts Bob out of the room and closes the door, turning to the bed to see Evelyn watching him with a loving, excited gleam in her eyes.

            He strips his underwear off again and climbs back into the bed, quickly covering her with his body as he begins to kiss her.

            She’s still giggling a little, as if she’s so happy she can’t help it.

            “Did you really mean it?” she asks breathlessly.

            He chuckles. “Of course I meant it,” he presses a kiss to her lips. “I meant to do it differently, I even have a -”

            He sits up and pulls away from her, hurrying across the room to his dresser. He opens one of his drawers and digs through the socks in it until he finds the small box he’s looking for. He takes it back over to the bed and kneels on the bed beside her, opening the box and showing it to her.

            “Evelyn, will you -”

            “Yes, you dork,” she playfully interrupts, and she sits up and looks at the ring.

            It’s nothing extravagant, but he’s noticed in the time that he’s known her that she has simple, elegant taste. It’s a thin, braided white gold band with an oval diamond that’s a very subtle grey-blue color, so that when it catches the light it almost looks like her eyes.

            “Cullen, I – Maker it’s gorgeous,” she breathes, and she raises her watery gaze to his. “How long have you -”

            “Longer than I should admit,” he says, and he picks the ring out of the box and slides it onto her finger. He watches as she looks at the sight of it, tilting it this way and that to enjoy the way it catches the light.

            “And how long is that, exactly?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in teasing jest.

            “Uh, after – after only a month,” he confesses. “And it only took me that long because I was looking for the perfect ring.”

            She looks at a loss for words, and the tears that have been threatening to spill out of her eyes finally do, sliding down her cheeks as she smiles. “You’ve known for that long?”

            “For longer,” he sets the ring box aside and brushes the tears off her cheeks as he moves closer to her. “I love you, Evelyn. I want to spend my whole life with you.”

            She gives a few shaky giggles and wraps her arms around his neck. “I want that too, Cullen. It’s perfect, you’re perfect,” she begins scattering his face with kisses. “I love you.”

            All he can think is that it’s a good thing the spontaneous urge came over him on a day neither of them had to work, because neither of them seems to want to get out of bed now. He rolls her on the bed, pinning her down and exploring every inch of her until she’s breathless and begging.

            He presses himself to her back, covering her with his body and spreading her legs with his knees as he kisses and gently nibbles every inch of her that he can reach. When he thrusts into her, he holds her hand, his fingers interlocked with hers on the pillow so he can look at the ring he’s placed on her finger.

            He whispers declarations of love while he moves within her. He talks about a future and how they’ll always be together. She moans and asks him to keep going, she returns his soft words with her own, with her own tender promises. When she comes undone it’s with a soft cry of his name, and he moans _“Mrs. Rutherford,”_ in her ear as he finds his own release within her.

            “I like the sound of that,” she says softly, breathing heavily as they both try to come down from their shared ecstasy.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Love, are you doing all right?” she asks as she finishes putting her earring in.

            Cullen’s standing with his hands braced on the bathroom counter, his head hanging as he tries to take deep breaths. She recognizes the signs, and she thinks she knows that he just has to be overwhelmed.

            She hurries forward to him and places a hand reassuringly on his back. “Cullen? Can I get you anything?”

            He shakes his head. “I’m fine, I just need a moment.”

            She presses a kiss to his cheek. “Let me know if you do.”

            She goes back to fastening her other earring and then reaches for her necklace. She’s feeling nervous as well, considering how many things are happening that night.

            Their clinic has become even more successful, and they’ve organized a gala to raise money for it. She used her family’s name and connections to organize it, but that’s meant inviting her family to the party.

            Cullen isn’t just hosting a gala and trying to get funds for his nonprofit this evening – he’s also meeting the entire Trevelyan clan, including her father, for the first time. She can tell he’s partially worried he should have asked her father’s permission before proposing, since he’s a traditional gentleman like that. She’s assured him again and again that it wasn’t necessary, but on top of the nerves about the gala’s success, the concern that he didn’t isn’t helping.

            He’s made so many improvements in his own condition, but occasionally he still gets headaches, tremors, and nightmares. When he has nerves or stress, everything seems to get worse for him. She knows it’s partly his body wanting a release from the stress, craving lyrium like it would help him through the anxieties. Still though, he never falters, and he never acts like he’s even tempted to give in to the cravings. Instead, he takes a step back and refocuses himself.

            Pup comes bounding into the room, jumping around wildly. He’s gotten so much bigger over the last few months, and Evelyn sometimes wonders what she was thinking letting Cullen pick a mabari instead of a slightly smaller dog. But then Pup goes running to sit beside Cullen and leans his head against his master’s leg and she smiles. Cullen reaches a hand down to the top of his head and gently pats it, and she can tell some of his worry and pain is dissipating as the dog comforts him.

            A mabari was the right choice.

            After a few moments of petting the loving hound, Cullen straightens and turns to look at her with a smile. “Are you ready, love?” he asks.

            “Yes, I think I am,” she says, and she grabs her purse and her wrap so that they can head out the door.

            The whole time they drive to the gala, she can hardly take her eyes off of him.

            Black tie looks good on Cullen, and she muses that they need to hold more fundraising events like this in the future so she can show him off.

            She watches him move through the crowd at the gala, speaking with potential donors and explaining the clinic. He’s usually not one for social affairs like this, but he’s so passionate about his work that the schmoozing comes easily to him. All he has to do is focus on describing their work, and his audiences are enraptured by his every word.

            She finally sees her parents arrive and hurries over to greet them, planting kisses on both of their cheeks.

            “Evelyn, dear, you look stunning,” her mother tells her, and she smiles. Her mother quickly grabs her hand and looks at the ring, inspecting it with a curious look on her face.

            “Evie, dear,” her father says as he looks around the ballroom. “Where is this young man of yours? Your mother is dying to meet him.”

            “Oh please,” her mother scoffs playfully. “Your father is the one who’s been talking about it nonstop.”

            Evelyn smiles and takes her mother’s arm, looking out over the crowded ballroom. She spots Cullen easily and catches his eye, smiling and waving him over. “Here he comes now,” she says.

            Cullen excuses himself from the guests he was speaking with and moves through the crowd. He’s trying to look confident and self-assured, but she knows him well enough she can tell he’s nervous. She releases her mother’s arm and goes to meet him, standing on tip toes and kissing him on the cheek reassuringly.

            “Mom, Dad, this is Cullen,” she introduces him. “Cullen, this is my mother and father, Ophelia and Bertram Trevelyan.”

            “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Cullen says, and he holds his hand out to her mother first and then her father. She can tell, just by looking at her parents, that they already love him.

            “My, Evelyn, what a handsome man you’ve found,” her mother says, and she sees Cullen blush next to her.

            “I understand you were a Templar,” her father says, looking as if he’s carefully considering Cullen.

            “I was, yes,” Cullen nods.

            “My son was a Templar, but unfortunately he perished in the war,” Lord Trevelyan says, and he’s nodding his head absently as he takes in Cullen’s appearance.

            “Yes, Evelyn told me about Bron, I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Cullen replies.

            “I was wondering – could you tell me about this clinic you run? Evelyn’s told us but I’d love to hear more from you,” her father seems eager as he makes his request. Cullen gestures for him to come with him, suggesting they get a drink while they talk.

            Evelyn watches the two of them walk off to the bar, speaking enthusiastically with one another. Her mother steps beside her and watches them as well before she turns her gaze to her daughter.

            “He seems wonderful, Evelyn,” she says.

            “He is,” Evelyn agrees. “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The crowd erupts in cheers as Cullen pulls her into his arms and kisses her deeply, and he hears a few of their friends let out suggestive, jesting _whoops_ at the intensity with which he’s kissing her.

            She giggles and pulls her head back, smiling up at him with love written all over her face.

            She’s never looked more beautiful, he thinks, which is surprising since he seems to think that every time he looks at her. But the soft pearls she has scattered through the intricate braid her hair is in are catching the light and shining radiantly. The cream lace of her dress looks beautiful against her pale complexion, and he can feel the soft skin of her back, exposed by the low-cut design of her dress. Her cheeks are flushed slightly pink, as if she’s so happy she’s glowing.

            “I now present for the first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford,” the Revered Mother says behind them, and the crowd continues cheering wildly. He catches sight of his sisters in the front row and sees that they’re both crying, Branson nearby with his family and he’s one of the ones whooping excitedly. Cullen shakes his head and chuckles slightly at the sight. Evelyn’s mother is near them crying as well, and even her father looks a little teary-eyed. Cullen knows, though, that her father is happy beyond words.

            Since they met at the gala six months before, they’ve become close faster than he expected. Her father is just as passionate and driven as his daughter, and has begun working to support the clinic as well. He was so moved by Cullen’s own experience and passion, as well as the death of his son, and he’s become one of their largest benefactors and supporters. The success is astounding, and they’re in talks to open two more clinics in other areas of the Free Marches, with plans to expand to Ferelden and later Orlais.

            Cullen marvels over how well things are going as he walks down the aisle beside his wife, their arms interlocked.

            His wife.

            He looks down at her to see that she’s staring up at him, a tender and radiant look in her eyes.

            “I love you, husband,” she says, her voice choking slightly with her overwhelming joy.

            “I love you, wife,” he stops leading her and leans down to press a kiss to her lips.

            He’s going to have every day of his life to kiss her, to love her. He knows they’ll succeed at everything they attempt. He knows that they’ll be happier than he ever thought he would be, because they have each other.

            He has everything he could ever want or need, because he has her at his side.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Cordelia Rutherford,” she sighs. “Cordelia or Rosalind?”

            Evelyn raises her gaze from the baby in her arms, having to work to tear her eyes away from the golden curls dusting the top of their daughter’s head.

            Cullen is smiling down at his daughter, his eyes full of love and happiness. “I think I like Cordelia. She looks like a Cordelia,” he finally says. His voice almost cracks with emotion. “We can always name the next one Rosalind.”

            She giggles. “You’ll have to give me a little time before the next one,” she teases lightly.

            “I’ll try,” he presses a kiss to her forehead. “You looked too beautiful pregnant, I’d like to see it a few more times. Although, I’m not sure anything could be more wonderful than this view, of you feeding our child.”

            He’s almost on the verge of tears, and she raises her chin to tilt her face up for a kiss. He gladly obliges her, kissing her tenderly, gently conveying his pure joy with his lips.

            “Are you happy? She – she has my eyes, and I know that means -” Evelyn says, unable to keep herself from vocalizing the odd fear that gripped her when she saw her lightning eyes in her newborn’s face. It seems unfounded; he no longer acts like magic bothers him at all, but she still felt uncertain when faced with the evidence that their daughter has inherited her raw magical talent.

            “It means she’ll be just as strong and beautiful as her mother,” he interrupts her. “Evelyn, I – I couldn’t be happier. I have everything I never thought I’d have, I have happiness I thought was outside of my grasp.”

            Tears slide down her cheeks as she tilts her head up for another kiss. “I love you, Cullen.”

            “I love you, Evelyn. And I’ll love all of our children, no matter if they’re mages or not,” he assures her.

            He tightens his arm around her and she leans her head back against his shoulder, staring down lovingly at their daughter nursing.

            He’s right, she thinks.

            They’re together, and everything is as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after.
> 
> I truly hope you enjoyed reading this! I started it as a way to explore writing a Cullen who's going through the good and bad of withdrawal, since I feel like I've shied away from fully doing that in some of the other works in this series. Instead it turned into something bigger than I originally planned, but I had way too much fun writing this!  
> I'm certain I could keep going, and just write you fluffy, smutty chapters of these two forever. But if the growing number of works I have featuring these two is any indication, I'm almost definitely going to keep doing that. What can I say, I love Evelyn and Cullen so much. <3
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading, and for all of your comments and kind words. You're all wonderful and if I could give readers kudos, I would. Check out other works in this series if you haven't, and I always love hearing from readers! Feedback is my lifeblood, haha. You can find me on Tumblr too if you want to send me prompts or ask me stuff.
> 
> xx,  
> L


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